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TRESSILIA.N. 


TEESSILIAN 


AND 


HIS     FRIENDS. 


BY 


DR.  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE, 

ECITOB     OF     THE     "NOCTES     AMBROSIAN^,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 
J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO 
1859. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT    &    CO., 

in  the  Clerk's  Oflace  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


®0 


JOHN     BROUaHAM,    ESQ., 


IN   ADIQRATION   OP   HIS   VARIED   TALENTS, 


THIS    VOLUME 


IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


1661519 


0OE"TEKTS. 


-<*- 


PAGB 

The  Gathering, 9 

Ensign  Simmonds,  ...........        ..17 

The  Bush  Guinea, 26 

Le  Millionaire  Malgr6  Lui, 85 

Tressilian's  Story,  .        ..•••••••...55 

Velasquez  and  Iiis  Mestizo, •....94 

A  Niglit  vrith  Burns,       •••• •..  114 

Love  and  Phrenology,    ...•••••••..  127 

The  Composer  of  Poetry, 143 

The  Divan, 165 

The  Heiress, 172 

Josepliine's  Repeater, 199 

The  Second  Sight, 217 

The  German  Student's  Story, 232 

Bleeding-Heart  Yard, 250 

Beatrice  d'Este, 269 

A  Legend  of  Charlemagne, 285 

Love  and  Moonlight, 299 

An  Excursion, 802 

Legend  of  the  Maiden  Tower, 812 

The  Last  Throw  of  the  Dice, 818 

The  Great  Tnu  Cause, 839 

L'Envoi, 865 


TRESSILIAN; 

OB,. 

THE    STOHY-TELLEHS. 


-*•►- 


THE    GATHERING. 

On  a  fine  May  morning,  some  years  ago,  I  had  walked 
over  from  Chesterfield  (an  English  country  town),  to  Mat- 
lock, and,  however  pleasant  it  may  be  to  talk  and  writo 
of  a  pedestrian  journey  of  twelve  miles,  through  a  romantic 
district,  the  greater  pleasure  is,  when  the  wearying  walk  is 
ended,  and  you  have  settled  down  into  an  amalgamation  of 
coolness  and  repose,  to  take  your  ease  in  your  inn,  and  there 
personally  experience  the  "  warmest  welcome  "  to  an  excellent 
breakfast.  Philosophers  may  speculate  as  they  please  upon 
the  fact — for  fact  it  very  unquestionably  is — that  in  an 
English  country  inn,  it  would  seem,  even  with  the  most 
delicate, 

"  As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on." 

I*  9 


10  ,TEESSIHAN. 

Fancy,  then,  liow  appetizing  a  walk  of  twelve  miles  must 
have  been  to  a  gentleman  in  rude  health !  But  this  is  a 
tender  memory,  which  should  be  kept  in  some  secret  hiding- 
place  of  the  mind,  nor  exposed  to  the  rude  breath  of  a  prosaic 
world. 

Matlock,  it  may  be  stated,  is  noted  for  its  medicinal  waters, 
which  are  found  about  two  miles  northeast  of  the  village,  at 
Matlock  Bath,  a  pretty  place,  peculiar  in  its  aspect,  and  full 
of  picturesque  points.  A  local  writer  has  thus  sketched  it : — 
"  The  huare  bulk  of  Masson  is  hollowed  out  to  receive  within 
it  a  lovely  village,  rising  terrace  above  terrace,  and  villa  after 
villa,  sheltered  within  little  clumps  of  sycamores  or  fruit 
trees :  the  Heights  of  Abraham  crowning  the  lovely  picture. 
The  swollen  Derwent  dashing  over  its  rocky  bed,  hemmed  in 
by  the  ever-verdant  banks  which  enclose  the  Lovers'  Walk — 
over  wliicli  rise  the  umbrageous  woods — while  from  among 
them  the  basaltic  rocks  rear  their  time-furrowed  heads  and 
ivied  battlements  in  every  varied  and  fantastic  form.  There 
stands  the  village  church,  as  if  guarding  the  sweet  scene. 
Beyond,  is  the  lawn  of  the  Old  Bath  Ilotel  and  its  sparkling 
fountain." 

Matlock  is  all  tliat  is  thus  described — and  more.  The 
Derwent  flows  on,  sometimes  with  a  rapid  rush,  through  a 
narrow  channel,  with  musical  murmur  as  it  dashes  over  the 
rocky  fragments  from  the  clifis  above,  and  then,  when  it 
widens,  gently  expands,  until  you  see  it,  clear  and  unruffled, 
mirroring  on  its  surface  the  trees,  which  luxuriantly  overhang 
it.  On  one  side  of  the  ravine  stands  Matlock  Bath,  with  the 
houses  scattered  on  the  side  of  the  slope,  here  and  there,  in 
picturesque  disarrangement.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river,  vast  masses  of  naked  rocks  are  contiguous  to  other 
eminences,  scarcely  less  exalted — some  covered  Avith  green 
turf,  some  crowned  with  clumps  of  leafy  trees.     The  familiar 


THE      GATHERING.  11 

:  and  the  sublime  are  strangely  mingled  here  ;  trim  cottages  and 
neat  shops,  sumptuous  hotels  and  gravelled  walks  appearing 
scarcely  in  accordance  with  scenes  where  Nature  has  been 
lavish  of  her  wildest  beauty.  The  very  nomenclature  of  the 
show-places  burlesques  the  Romantic.  In  spite  of  all, 
Matlock,  like  the  lady  in  Coleridge's  Christabelle,  is  "  beau- 
tiful exceedingly." 

My  own  recollection  of  the  place  is  very  general.  I 
remember  that,  with  several  other  unfortunates  of  both 
sexes,  I  was  dragged  into  divers  caverns,  which  I  was  told 
ought  to  be  admired,  because  the  Romans  had  formerly  got 
ore  out  of  them ;  that  they  gleamed  very  prettily  for  a 
moment,  when  fireworks  were  let  off  to  exhibit  the  sparry 
lustre  of  their  stalactites ;  that  we  were  desired  not  to  pass 
here,  because  it  led  to  no  where,  and  not  to  think  of  venturing 
there,  as  it  ended  in  a  fathomless  abyss  of  water ;  that  each 
guide  pertinaciously  insisted  on  the  vast  superiority  of  his 
mine  or  cavern  over  all  others ;  that  we  were  allowed,  at 
last,  to  emerge  into  the  fresh  air,  and  gaze  up  at  a  lofty 
hill,  called  the  High  Tor,  through  which  a  railway-tunnel 
has  since  been  scooped  ;  that  we  were  duly  marched  to  a  sum- 
mit, yclept  the  Heights  of  Abraham,  whence,  indeed,  the  view 
is  so  beautiful  that  even  the  nuisance  of  a  o-arrulous  guide  was 
unheeded  at  the  moment ;  that,  descending  from  this  eleva- 
tion, we  were  conducted  to  the  Petrifying  Wells,  which,  like 
those  at  Knaresborough,  speedily  cover  all  articles  placed 
therein  vnth  an  abundant  deposit  of  carbonate  of  lime,  so  as 
to  form  complete  incrustrations ;  that  some  of  us  obtained 
specimens  of  articles  so  incrusted,  which,  no  doubt,  were 
thrown  away  within  two  hours  after ;  and  that,  having  seen 
all  the  sights  (including  the  museums,  which  are  really  worth 
an  express  journey  to  Matlock,  so  extensive  and  beautiful  are 
their  supplies  of  native  minerals),  a  few  of  us,  grouping 


12  TREB8ILIAN. 

together,  determined  to  be  independent  of  guides  for  the 
future,  and  to  observe  and  admire  for  ourselves. 

So  we  walked  from  place  to  place  (the  quaint  little  church 
of  St.  Giles,  in  Matlock  village,  standing  on  the  very  verge  of 
a  tall  rock,  appearing  to  us  worth  all  the  regulation  show- 
places),  and  soon  became  friendly.     Thus  we  leisurely  visited 
the  High  Tor,  with  the  Derwent  winding  at  its  base,  while, 
overhead,  the  rock  towers  in  huge  bulk,  like  a  perpendicular 
wall,  vast,  bare,  and  weather-beaten.    We  ascended  the  Masson- 
height,  on  the  opposite  side,  the  view  from  which,  though  it 
includes  a  cotton  mill  and  a  weir,  is  a  favorite  with  the  Mat- 
lock \asitors.     We  sauntered  on,  by  Cromford  Bridge,  over 
the  Derwent,  towards  Willersley  Castle,  built  by  Ai-kwright, 
the  inventor  of  the  spinning  jenny,  who  reclaimed  from  the 
wild  and  rocky  moorland  the  gardens  which  now  are  the 
admiration  of  that  part  of  the  world.     We  ascended  the 
Wild  Cat  Tor,  and  thence,  looking  northward,  had  a  view, 
such  as  cannot  be  surpassed  in  England,  perhaps,  in  its  blend- 
ing of  the  grand  and  the  familiar.     We  then  scrambled 
down  to  the  Lovers'  Walk,  which  margins  the  Derwent  to 
the  east.     We  entrusted  ourselves  to  the  boats  which  were 
in  waiting  to  carry  us  across  the  river ;  and  after  all  this 
loitering,  returned  to  the  hostelry,  called  the  New  Bath 
Hotel,  at  which,  as  it  chanced,  our  little  party  were  staying. 

Thrown  thus  together,  in  this  fortuitous  manner,  we  arrived 
at  the  very  un-English  resolution  of  being  sociable  (albeit  not 
formally  "  introduced"  to  each  other),  of  enjoying  common 
sitting  and  refreshment  rooms ;  of  forming,  in  fact,  one  party 
for  the  time.  None  of  us  intended  making  a  long  stay — it  is 
odd,  by  the  way,  that  so  few  visitois  do  remain  more  than  a 
few  days  at  Matlock.  As  birds  of  passage,  therefore,  we  deter- 
mined to  enjoy  ourselves  while  we  could,  and  how  wexould. 
Buch,  we  afterwards  heard,  had  been  the  good  old  custom  at 


THE      GATHERING.  13 

Matlock,  even  within  the  last  sixty  years.  There  were  fewer 
visitors  then,  but  such  as  came  remained  for  some  months, 
and  lived  sociably  together  during  their  visit ;  dining  in  com- 
mon, having  quiet  dances  and  long  whist  in  the  evening,  retiring 
early,  and  forming  one  agreeable  community.  We  had  never 
met  until  that  day — we  might  never  meet  again — why  not 
enjoy  ourselves  when  there  was  the  opportunity  ?  There  might 
have  been  more  solemn  dignity  in  each  man's  sitting  by  himself, 
over  his  solitary  repast,  but  there  was  enjoyment,  rational  as 
well  as  pleasant,  in  sociably  joining  company  as  we  did. 

At  first,  our  party  was  small.  The  most  noticeable  was  a 
tall,  handsome  man,  of  about  forty,  whose  erect  carriage, 
easy  manners,  and  bronzed  countenance,  indicated  that  he 
had  seen  much  of  the  world.  Nor  were  we  in  error  in  sur- 
mising, after  having  been  half  an  hour  in  his  society,  that  ho 
was  a  military  man.  We  learned,  indeed,  that  he  was  now 
on  the  half-pay,  and  had  borne  the  rank  of  Major  in  the 
line. 

Another  of  our  company  was  an- artist,  travelling,  like 
Dr.  Syntax,  of  happy  memory,  "  in  search  of  the  picturesque." 
He  had  an  extraordinary  facility  in  sketching ;  and  whatever 
caught  his  attention — tree,  rock,  or  ruin — stream,  valley,  or 
mountain — man,  woman,  or  child — w^as  rapidly  and  faithfully 
dashed  ofi"  in  a  few  spirited  touches  of  his  pencil,  and  carefully 
treasured  up.  W^ith  a  strong  feeling  for  the  Beautiful,  he  also 
had  a  remarkable  appreciation  of  the  Ludicrous,  and  he 
would  have  been  unequalled  as  a  caricaturist,  had  he  yielded 
to  the  temptation  of  exercising  his  talents  in  that  ephemeral 
but  popular  line.  In  those  days,  however,  '•  Punch  "  was  not. 
Our  artist  (who  now  writes  R.  A.  after  his  name)*  must 
figure  in   these   pages  by   the  nom  de  guerre   of   Crayon. 

*  As  one  of  the  forty  Royal  Academicians  of  England. 


14^  TRESSILIAN. 

Tliougli  young,  he  had  seen  varieties  of  life  in  many  countries, 
had  read  much,  and  Jiad  been  a  close  observer  of  men  and 
things  wherever  he  went.  There  was  a  heartiness  in  his  nature 
which  was  irresistible ;  indeed,  it  was  chiefly  at  his  suggestion 
that  we  agreed  to  make  one  party. 

There  was  an  author,  wdio,  having  just  seen  his  annual 
work  of  fiction  thi-ough  the  press — in  those  days,  novels  and 
romances  had  a  considerable  sale — had  come  into  the  country 
to  unbend  the  bow.  lie  was  a  gentleman  of  pleasing  man- 
ners, much  information,  and  with  great  personal  knowledge 
of  literary  men.  We  found  him  very  unaffected,  and  sin- 
gularly free  from  any  thing  like  envy  of  his  own  competitors. 
He  recognized  the  artist :  they  met  in  the  country  like  old 
friends,  though  both  confessed,  laughingly,  that,  in  London, 
theirs  had  hitherto  been  little  more  than  a  mere  bowing 
acquaintance.  "When  there  is  occasion  to  name  him,  this 
personage  must  be  known  in  these  pages  as  Mr.  Butler. 

The  fourth  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  omitted  to  in- 
troduce him : — otherwise  (with  the  modest  assurance  which, 
appeared  so  much  a  part  of  his  nature,  that  no  one  ever 
thouo'ht  of  blamina:  him  for  sometimes  exercising  it")  he  cer- 
tainly  would  have  made  a  point  of  introducing  himself.  This 
was  an  Irishman,  with  high,  but  not  boisterous  spirits,  and 
good-nature  in  every  word  and  look.  He  was  "full  of  fun," 
— joking  on  every  thing,  and  exciting  mirth  with  aj)parently 
little  effort.  Mr.  Moran  was  a  strange  compound  of  mind 
and  matter;  he  was  a  good  scholar,  but  endeavoured  to  appear 
as  if  he  had  never  opened  a  book.  He  could  converse  well 
•with  every  man  on  the  subject  best  known  to  the  party  with 
whom  he  was  speaking.  He  knew  nearly  as  much  about 
pictures  and  painting,  as  the  artist;  his  legends  and  short, 
rapid  narratives  might  have  been  profitably  expanded  by  the 
author ;  and  the  Major  averred  that  he  had  the  whole  "  His- 


THE      GATnEEING.  15 

tory  of  the  Wars  of  Europe,"  at  his  fingers'  ends.  He  was 
free,  careless,  good-humored,  intelligent,  as  yet  on  the  sunny 
side  of  thirty,  and  no  one  could  be  in  his  company  for  five 
minutes  without  feeling  convinced  that  he  was  likely  to 
achieve  high  reputation  in  whatever  he  attempted.  In  less 
than  two  years  from  the  time  I  first  met  him,  he  had  ceased 
to  be — he  was  a  candidate  for  an  Irish  county,  at  a  Parlia- 
mentary Election,  but  w^as  suddenly  taken  off,  by  a  neglected 
cold,  which  turned  to  inflammation  of  the  chest,  just  as,  all 
his  wild  oats  sown,  he  was  about  to  commence  an  active 
career  in  politics. 

With  the  four  whom  I  have  thus  rapidly  introduced,  there 
was  a  fifth — and  I  scarcely  know  how  to  describe  him.  Let 
it  suffice,  that  he  now  holds  the  pen.  At  that  time,  he  con- 
ducted a  newspaper  in  the  vicinity  of  Matlock,  and  the  im- 
pertinence of  mentioning  him  here  should  not  have  been 
committed,  were  it  not  that,  but  for  his  memory  and  short- 
band  notes,  the  novelettes  and  legends  which  follow,  would 
have  been  preserved  imperfectly — or  not  at  all ! 

We  had  dined,  and  were  lijigering  over  our  wine  and 
walnuts,  when  a  batch  of  new  arrivals  was  announced.  The 
artist,  who  seemed  to  know  every  body,  saw,  as  they  alighted, 
that  he  knew  these,  and  hastened  to  receive  and  welcome 
them.  He  informed  them  that  every  sitting-room  in  the  inn, 
as  well  as  every  furnished  cottage  and  private  lodging  in  the 
village,  was  already  occupied,  and  in  the  name  of  our  small 
party  invited  them  to  join  us.  The  invitation  was  accepted, 
and  thus  our  quartette  was  augmented  by  two  ladies  and  a 
gentleman.  They  consisted  of  Sir  Julian  and  Lady  Tressilian, 
and  a  friend  of  theirs,  whom  we  heard  addressed  by  the  Major 
as  Ladv  Morton — whose  recoQ-nition,  I  could  see,  was  received 
by  her  neither  calmly  nor  with  indifterence. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  some  conversation  having 


18  T  R  E  S  S  I  L  I  A  >r  . 

arisen  as  to  the  eccentricities  which  are  occasionally  met  with 
in  various  ranks  of  life,  the  Major  stated  that  he  believed  he 
could  remember  a  friend's  adventures,  which  had  terminated 
very  hap])ily,  owing  to  the  eccentric  notions  of  a  well-known 
original  in  a  neighbouring  town.  It  required  little  persuasion 
to  tempt  him  to  relate  the  anecdote,  and  accordingly,  he  told 
it  to  us,  in  manner  such  as  I  now  endeavor  to  repeat  it : — 


ENSIQN     8IMM0NDS.  17 


ENSIGK    SIMMONDS, 

OF    THE    TENTH. 

When  railway  travelling  was  undreamt  of,  and  mail  coactes 
were  "  alone  in  their  glory,"  the  ancient  and  sooty  town  of 
Sheffield  rejoiced  in  the  possession  of  an  inhabitant,  named 
Mr.  Samuel  Peach.  To  have  inquired  for  him,  however,  by 
that  appellation,  would  have  been  next  to  useless.  Not  only 
in  Sheffield,  but  throughout  the  leno-th  and  breadth  of  the 
three  Eidings  of  Yorkshire,  he  was  known,  and  familiarly 
spoken  of,  as  "  Sam  Peach,  of  the  Angel  coach-office,"  just  as 
people  would  speak,  ere  railwayism  arose,  of  "  Tom  Waddell, 
of  the  Hen  and  Chickens,  at  Birmingham,"  or  "  Isaac  Taylor, 
of  the  Lion,  at  Shrewsbury," 

Eccentric  in  many  things,  yet  with  a  dash  of  quiet  humour 
and  a  most  catholic  spirit  of  humanity  in  his  nature,  was  this 
same  Sam  Peach.  He  was  wealthy,  of  course — eccentricity 
being  too  great  a  luxury  for  a  poor  man  to  indulge  in.  Of 
the  importance  of  his  own  position,  as  autocrat  of  the  mail 
and  stage  coaches  which  travelled  to  and  from  Sheffield,  he 
had  a  high  opinion.  Not  having  any  connection  with  the 
Statistical  Society,  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  state,  with 
requisite  fullness  and  particularity  of  detail,  how  many  of 
these  coaches  he  possessed — how  many  horses  he  bad  "  on  the 
road," — how  many   quarters  of  oats,  and  loads  of  hay,  his 


18  TRESSILIAX. 

cattle  annually  consumed — ^how  many  miles  per  diem  his  car- 
riatres  travelled — to  how  many  families  his  calling  gave  bread. 
Enough  it  is  to  say,  that  Sara  Peach,  engrossing  the  "  convey- 
ancing department"  in  and  from  Sheffield,  was  considered  a 
very  wealthy  personage — the  rather,  perhaps,  because  he  stu- 
diously avoided  the  display  of  riches.  He  had  purchased  some 
land  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sheffield,  extensive  enough  to  be 
called  an  estate.  He  always  spoke  of  it  as  "  the  farm,"  though 
the  house  he  had  erected  there  was  of  sufficiently  imposing 
appearance  and  extent  for  the  country  seat  of  one  of  the 
squirearchy.  With  that  "  order,"  Sam  Peach  had  no  desire 
to  be  identified.  Plain,  and  somewhat  brusque  in  his  manner, 
he  was  proud  of  the  business  by  which  he  had  acquired  an 
independence,  and  it  is  yet  remembered  as  a  fact,  that,  on  one 
occasion,  when  a  distinguished  commoner  in  the  neighbor- 
hood (since  become  a  peer  and  a  Cabinet-minister),  addressed 
him  a.s  "  Samuel  Peach,  Esquire^''  the  recipient,  though  he 
knew  the  writing,  returned  the  letter  to  the  postman,  with  an 
endorsement,  "  not  known  at  the  Angel  coach-office  !" 

Wealth  and  integrity,  backed  by  his  eccentricity,  had  made 
Sam  Peach  a  very  popular  character  in  Sheffield.  Never  did 
any  one  care  less  for  popularity.  His  rule  of  conduct  was, 
to  pursue  the  right,  whatever  should  betide.  His  very  pecu- 
liarities "leaned  to  mercy's  side!"  It  was  as  much  as  any 
of  his  coachmen's  place  was  worth,  for  one  of  them  to  see  a 
tired  foot-traveller  on  the  road,  and  not  immediately,  "  pull 
up,"  and  invite  the  way-farer  to  a  seat.  The  sterling  charac- 
ter of  the  man  was  estimated  from  the  fact,  that  most  of  the 
people  around  him  had  been  in  his  employment  for  upwards 
of  twenty  years. 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  Sam  Peach  had  never  heard 
of  the  name  and  system  of  Lavater,  and  yet  he  had  a  habit 
of  taking  likes  and  dislikes  to  people's  faces,  which  involved 


ENSIGN      8IMM0NDS.  19 

the  putting  them  "  inside  for  outside  fare,"  or  for  no  fare,  or 
the  stout  refusal  to  take  them  inside  or  outside  of  any  of  his 
coaches,  at  any  price- 
It  happened,  one  sunny  day  in  September,  1815,  that  Sam 
Peach  was  sitting  in  his  coach-office — ^his  custom  ever  of  an 
afternoon — engaged  in  examining  a  ledger  ;  for  he  used  to  say 
that,  by  attending  to  business  he  was  pretty  sure  of  business 
attending  to  him.  A  gentleman  came  in  and  asked,  What 
was  the  coach-fare  to  London  ? 

The  booking-clerk,  with  pen  across  his  mouth,  after  the 
fashion  of  persons  who  would  fain  appear  exceedingly  busy, 
answered,  "  One  pun'  fifteen  out ;  two  pun'  ten  zn." 

The  traveller  desired  to  be  booked  for  an  outside  place,  if 
there  were  room.  "  Not  one  seat  taken,"  said  the  booking- 
clerk. 

"I  suppose  I  had  better  pay  you  here?"  inquired  the 
traveller. 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  was  the  reply ;  "  only,  until  we  have 
the  money,  you  neither  put  foot  into  the  coach  nor  on  it." 

The  money  was  accordingly  disbursed  out  of  a  not  very 
plethoric  purse. 

"  What  name  ?"  asked  the  booking-clerk. 

"  W^hat  name  ?"  echoed  the  traveller. 

"  I  thought  I  spoke  plain  enough,"  said  the  clerk,  sulkily. 
"  What  name  are  we  to  book  you  by  ?  You  have  a  name,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  traveller,  with  a  smile ;  "  but 
I  have  been  for  some  years  where  a  man's  name  was  the  last 
thing  required  from  him.  Put  me  down  as  Ensign  Simmonds 
of  the  Tenth." 

Mr.  Simmonds  was  duly  entered  in  the  book,  and  thence 
in  the  way  bill  ? — Indeed  he  w^as  not ! 

The  moment  that  the  traveller  had  described   himself  as 


20  TRESSILIAX. 

"  Ensign  Sinimonds  of  the  Tentli,"  Sam  Peacli  closed  the  big 
ledger,  with  an  emphasis  which  made  a  sound  not  unlike  a  pistol 
shot — pushed  the  fat-headed  booking-clerk  aside — took  his 
place,  with  a  countenance  quite  radiant  with  excitement — 
and,  in  his  blandest  tone,  asked  what  name  be  should  enter 
in  the  day-book. 

"  Ensio-n  Simmonds  of  the  Tenth." 

"  Well !"  said  Sam,  in  the  subdued  manner  of  a  man  hold- 
ing a  confidential  conversation  with  himself.  "  Well,  my  ears 
did  7iot  deceive  me.  Wliat  a  singular  thing  this  is,  to  be 
sure."  Then,  addressing  Mr.  Simmonds,  he  said,  "  In  the 
army.  Sir  ?" 

"  Why,  considering  that  I  bear  his  Majesty's  commission,  I 
think  I  may  safely  say  that  I  am." 

"  Seen  service  ?" 

"  Yes ;  two  years  in  the  Peninsula,  and  in  the  last  brush 
with  the  French  at  Waterloo." 

"  Wonderful !"  exclaimed  Sam  Peach.  "  Got  a  Waterloo 
medal  ?" 

•'  Aye,  and  a  Waterloo  wound.  Indeed,  I  have  been  at 
home  since  my  return,  getting  cured  ;  and  now  that  I  am  on 
my  legs  again,  I  am  off  to  town  to  report  myself  at  the  Ilorso 
Guards  for  duty.  Our  second  battalion  is  to  be  disbanded ; 
and  as  we  are  likely  to  have  a  long  peace,  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
have  some  difficulty  in  getting  upon  full  pay  in  another  regi- 
ment." 

"Then,"  said  Sam  Peach,  rather  anxiously,  "you  are  not 
bound  to  be  at  the  Ilorse  Guards  by  any  particular  day  ?" 

Mr.  Simmonds  replied  that  he  was  not. 

"  That  being  the  case,  Sir,"  said  Sam  Peach,  "  it  can't  make 
any  great  difference  your  not  being  able  to  trayel  by  any  of 
my  coaches  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Not  go  ? — after  paying  for  my  seat !" 


ENSIGN     SIMMOKDS.  21 


"  Afraid  not.     All  the  seats  engaged." 

Here  the  fat-headed  book-keeper  chimed  in  with  "Not  one 
on  'em.     Only  look  at  the  way-bill." 

Sam  Peach  pushed  aside  the  officious  underling,  and 
declared  that  he  was  "  a  stoopid,  who  did  not  know  what  he 
was  saying."  Then,  resuming  his  conversation  with  Mr. 
Simmonds,  he  added,  "  The  fact  is,  sir,  all  the  seats  are 
engaged.  But  as  you  have  paid  your  fare,  I  am  bound  to 
send  you  forward  in  a  post-chaise,  or  make  the  delay  of  no 
loss  to  you.  My  house  is  only  a  few  miles  out  of  town.  I 
shall  feel  obliged  by  your  coming  out  to  dine  with  me  to-day. 
In  the  morning  I  shall  drive  you  in,  if  you  like,  and  you  can 
start  for  London  by  any  coach  you  please." 

Vainly  did  Mr.  Simmonds  assure  Sam  Peach  that  he  had 
much  rather  proceed  to  London  without  delay — that  he  did 
not  wish  to  intrude  upon  his  hospitality — that  he  would 
prefer  remaining  at  the  "  Angel."  Vainly,  too,  did  he  endea- 
vour to  "ascertain  why  (when  there  apparently  was  no  real 
impediment  to  his  immediate  departure  for  London),  Sam 
Peach  should  wish  to  detain  him.  Sam,  determined  to  play 
the  host,  steadily  declined  giving  an  explanation ;  and  the 
result  was,  that,  at  six  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Simmonds 
found  himself  at  Sam  Peach's  table,  discussing  what  any 
gentleman,  even  if  he  had  not  campaigned  in  the  Peninsula, 
and  had  hospital  fare  at  Brussels  for  some  weeks  after  the 
day  of  Waterloo,  would  be  justified  in  considering  an 
excellent  dinner. 

Such  a  thing  as  "  taking  the  pledge "  (except  by  an 
avuncular  relative  at  the  Lombard  Arras),  was  not  thought  of 
at  that  time ;  and  therefore  a  few  glasses  of  old  wine  followed, 
of  course.  Much  they  talked — Ensign  Simmonds,  of  the 
adventures  he  had  met  with  while  on  foreign  service ;  Sam 
Peach,  Avho  was  a  capital  listener,  pleasantly  keeping  up  the 


22  TRESSILIAN. 

ball  by  occasional  shi-ewd  questions  and  racy  remarks.  At 
last — but  this  was  about  midway  on  the  second  bottle  of  tbat 
incomparable  port,  which  tasted  like  nectar,  and  smelt  like  a 
bouquet — Sam  Peach  grew  communicative  about  himself; 
told  how  he  had  risen  to  opulence  by  industry,  from  a  small 
commencement ;  and  boasted  how,  far  above  his  wealth,  he 
prized  his  only  daughter.  "You  shall  see  her  in  the  morn- 
ing," said  he ;  "  for  I  did  not  like  to  introduce  you  until  I 
saw  whether  my  fii'st  impressions  would  be  confirmed  on 
closer  acquaintance.  It  is  not  every  one,  I  can  tell  you,  that 
I  would  introduce  as  my  friend  to  my  daughter  Mary." 

A  ca23ital  breakfast  the  next  morning ;  and  not  the  less 
pleasant  because  pretty  Mary  Peach  presided  at  the  board, 
assisted,  on  such  social  duties  (as  her  mother  had  been  dead 
for  many  years),  by  a  maiden  aunt,  who  was  neither  skinny 
nor  shrewish. 

"Pleasant  weather,"  observed  Sam.  "Are  you  much  of  a 
sportsman  ?" 

"Rather,"  said  Mr.  Siramonds.  "We  had  plenty  of 
practice  at  the  red-legged  partridges  in  the  Peninsula.  You 
should  have  seen  how  Lord  Wellington  peppered  them,  when 
he  had  nothinsf  else  to  do  !" 

"  Well,"  said  Sam,  "  unfortunately,  I  had  not  the  chance 
of  seeing  him.  I  think  you  said  that  you  are  not  exactly 
tied  to  time  as  to  your  being  in  London ;  if  you  can  only 
make  up  your  mind  not  to  start  until  to-morrow,  there's  a 
famous  Joe  Manton  in  the  hall.  I  happen  to  own  the  preserve 
across  yonder  valley,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  not  a  gun  has 
been  fired  there  this  season." 

Mr.  Simmonds  remained  for  that  day  ? — To  be  sure  he  did. 
Fancy  a  young  man  of  five-and-twenty,  who  had  been  on 
foreign  service  for  three  years,  with  a  heart  beating  quick 
and  strong  within  his  bosom,  and  (at  that  time),  not  engaged 


ENSIGN      SIMM0ND8.  23 

in  any  particular  love  affair — fancy  him  suddenly  thrown 
into  the  society  of  Mary  Peach — really  a  well-educated  and 
pretty,  if  not  quite  a  beautiful  girl — pressed  to  make  the 
place  his  home  as  long  as  he  pleased,  and  the  quarters 
surprisingly  comfortable.  Fancy  all  this,  and  wonder,  if  you 
can,  at  Mr.  Simmonds  quite  forgetting  that  he  had  ever  dis- 
bursed "  one  pun'  fifteen "  for  the  outside  fare  to  London. 
Then  there  were  beautiful  snatches  of  scenery  all  along  that 
Glossop  Road,  which  Mary  Peach  recommended  him  to  look 
at,  and  to  which  she  kindly  accompanied  him,  as  he  might 
not  be  able  to  find  them  out  vrithout  her  assistance ; — and 
she  had  much  to  ask,  and  he  to  say,  about  foreign  countries, 
and  the  perils  he  had  been  in — and  she  made  him  tell  her, 
again  and  again,  how  he  had  got  his  wound  at  Waterloo — 
and  she  had  such  a  pretty  way  of  seeming  to  listen  with  her 
dark  grey  eyes,  and — but  I  need  not  go  on.  It  was  a  clear 
case! 

"  Then  there  were  sighs,  the  deeper  for  suppression, 
And  stolen  glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft." 

In  short,  it  had  come  to  pass  that  Mr.  Simmonds  had  a 
palpitation  of  the  heart  whenever  Mary  Peach  spoke  to  him, 
or  looked  at  him. 

"  In  love  "with  her  ?"  you  will  say.  You  know  how  it  will 
end  : — a  scene  with  the  lady — a  blush  or  two — half  a  dozen 
tears — the  whole  to  conclude  with  a  whispered,  "  Speak  to 
my  father !" 

Not  exactly  so ;  for  when  our  hero  found  that  he  was  in 
love,  he  took  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Sam  Peach, 
before  he  mentioned  a  word  of  the  matter  to  the  lady. 

You  will  think  that  he  was  in  a  pretty  passion,  no  doubt  ? 

Wrong  again.  Sam  told  Mr.  Simmonds  that  he  had  been 
expecting  something  of  the  kind,  having  full  use  of  his  eyes 


24  TRESSILIAN. 

and  ears ;  that,  under  this  expectation,  he  had  made  inqi;iries 
as  to  Mr.  Simmonds  and  his  character ;  that  he  was  satisfied 
with  what  he  had  heard ;  and  that  if  Mr.  Simmonds  could 
obtain  Mary's  consent,  no  man  ujjon  earth  would  be  more 
acceptable  as  a  son-in-law. 

Shortly  after,  Mr.  Simmonds  and  Mary  Peach  were  united 
— she  being  too  good  a  daughter  to  decline  giving  an  accept- 
able son-in-law  to  her  father.  What  fortune  she  had  was 
never  exactly  known ;  but  they  drove  off  from  church  in  a 
handsome  chariot-and-four,  which  Sam  Peach  had  presented 
to  the  happy  couple,  with  a  cheque  for  a  thousand  pounds  in 
the  pocket  of  the  door,  "  to  pay  travelling-expenses ;"  and  just 
as  the  bridegroom  was  about  stepping  into  the  vehicle,  where 
sat  the  bride,  all  beauty,  blonde,  and  bashfulness,  Sam  Peach 
delivered  himself  as  follows  : — 

"  Simmonds,  you  never  asked  me  what  I  saw  in  you,  when 
•we  first  met,  to  take  a  fancy  to  you,  and  bring  you  home 
with  me.  Know,  then,  that  in  the  five-and-thirty  years  I 
have  been  at  the  head  of  the  coaching  in  Sheffield,  I  have 
had  hundreds  of  military  men  in  my  office,  to  be  booked  for 
places — generals,  colonels,  majors,  and  a  crowd  of  captains  ; 
— but  you  were  the  only  Ensign  that  ever  came  across  me ! 
For  the  singularity  of  the  thing,  I  thought  that  phenomenon 
worthy  of  a  good  dinner.  Your  own  good  qualities  have 
done  tlie  rest.  Good  bye  now — God  bless  you ! — and  let  me 
hear  from  you  and  Mary  every  day." 


ENSIGN      S  I  M  M  O  N  D  S  .  25 

"I  knew  Sam  Peach  very  well,"  continued  the  Major. 
"He  was  full  of  oddities.  One  peculiarity  was  that  each  of 
his  cattle  should  have  one  day's  rest  every  week.  Without 
considerable  inconvenience  to  the  public  and  loss  to  himself, 
his  equine  friends  could  not  all  rest  on  the  same  day — there- 
fore, a  score  ceased  from  labour  on  Monday,  a  score  on  Tues- 
day, and  so  on.  His  motto  was,  '  The  merciful  man  is  merci- 
ful to  his  beast.'  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  anecdote  I  have 
now  told  you  had  a  foundation  in  truth." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Crayon,  "  few  books  would  be  more  amus- 
ing than  a  veritable  innkeeper's  Album,  relating  circum- 
stances which  had  occurred  in  different  hostelries,  and  des- 
cribing peculiar  traits  of  character  as  exhibited  by  'mine 
host'  in  different  towns.  I  recollect  hearinsf  an  American 
gentleman  tell  a  story  in  which  an  English  Boniface  of  former 
days  figures  very  favourably.  With  your  leave,  I  will  repeat 
it" 


2G 


TRESSILIAW. 


THE  BUSH  GUmEA. 

One  of  the  most  famous  and  flourishing  hotels  in  England^ 
when  Bristol  had  a  fair  share  of  trade  and  commerce,  mono- 
polizing a  great  portion  of  the  West  India  trade,  was  the 
Bush  Inn,  kept  by  a  true-hearted,  honest,  downright  man 
named  John  Weeks.  At  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  this  inn- 
keeper was  not  very  wealth}',  though  he  deserved  to  be.  The 
poor  largely  benefited  by  his  charity,  and  it  was  discovered, 
— not  until  after  his  death,  for  he  was  one  of  whom  it  mio-kt 
literally  be  said  that  his  right  hand  knew  not  what  his  left 
hand  did — that  several  decayed  housekeepers  were  largely 
indebted  to  his  benevolence  for  food,  clothes,  fuel  and  money 
during  the  hard  season  of  winter  in  particular,  and  at  all 
times  in  general. 

In  the  Bush  Inn  there  was  a  mighty  kitchen — it  is  there 
yet,  I  presume,  if  the  house  be  kept  up  as  an  inn* — down  the 
centre  of  which  extended  a  mammoth  table.  It  was  the  delight 
of  this  Boniface,  on  every  Christmas  Day,  to  cover  this  great 
table  with  a  glorious  load  of  roast  beef  and  plum-pudding, 
flanked,  most  plenteously,  with  double  home-brewed,  of  such 
mighty  strenith  and  glorious  flavour,  that  one  might  well 
have  called  it  malt-wine,  rather  than  malt-liquor.  At  this 
table,  on  that  day,  every  one  who  pleased  was  welcomed  to 


*Tbe  Bu3b  Inn,  at  Bristol,  was  coDTerted  Into  chambers  and  o£Sces,  a  few  years 
ago. 


THE      BUSH      GUINEA.  27 

sit  down  and  feast.  Many  to  whom  a  good  dinner  was  an 
object  did  so;  and  no  nobler  sight  was  there  in  Bristol, 
amid  all  its  wealth  and  hospitality',  than  that  of  honest  John 
Weeks  at  the  head  of  his  tabk*,  lustily  carving,  and  earnestly 
pressing  his  guests  to  "  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry." 

Nor  did  his  generosity  content  itself  with  this.  It  was  the 
custom  of  the  house,  and  of  the  day,  when  the  repast  was 
ended,  and  the  guests  had  drank  some  toasts,  commencing 
with  "  The  King,  God  bless  him "  (and  be  sure  that  their 
gratitude  did  not  forget  their  generous  entertainer),  that 
each  person  should  go  to  worthy  John  Weeks,  in  the  bar,  and 
there  receive  his  cordial  wishes  for  many  happy  returns  of 
the  genial  season.  They  received  something  more — for,  ac- 
cording to  their  several  necessities,  a  small  gift  in  money  was 
pressed  upon  each.  To  one  man  a  crown — to  another  half-a- 
guinea^to  a  third,  as  more  needing  it,  a  guinea.  On  the  whole, 
some  fifty  or  sixty  guineas  were  thus  dispensed.  The  gross 
amount  might  not  be  much,  but  the  good  done  was  great, 
and  on  that  one  day,  perhaps,  John  Weeks  thus  expended  a 
good  portion  of  his  annual  net  profits ;  though  less,  it  might 
be,  than  many  a  plethoric  Alderman  would  lavish  on  a  single 
entertainment  to  persons  of  his  own  rank  who  did  not  require, 
and  would  scarcely  thank  him  for  it. 

On  one  particular  year,  it  bad  been  noticed  during  the 
months  of  November  and  December,  that  a  middle-aged  man, 
Avhom  no  frequenter  of  the  Bush  Inn  appeared  to  know,  and 
who  appeared  to  know  no  one,  used  to  visit  the  coffee-room 
about  noon  every  day,  and,  calling  for  a  sixpenny  glass  of 
brandy  and  water,  sit  over  it  until  lie  had  carefully  gone 
through  the  perusal  of  the  London  paper  of  the  preceding 
evening,  which  used  to  arrive  about  an  hour  before  his  visit, 
owinor  to  Mr.  Palmer's  then  recent'  acceleration  of  mail- 
coach  travelling  from  five  to  eight  miles  an  hour — a  novelty 


28  TRESSILIAN. 

which,  at  that  time,  was  considered  to  be  the  accomplishment 
of  very  extraordinary  speed.  The  landlord  of  the  Bush,  seeing 
how  anxious  the  reduced  gentleman  was  to  read  the  London 
paper,  made  it  be  understood  tliat  while  he  had  it  "  in  hand," 
no  one  else  was  to  expect  it.  Thus,  without  being  pressed  for 
time,  the  reduced  gentleman  was  allowed  to  read  his  paper  at 
his  ease,  which  he  did,  apparently  commencing  with  the  title 
on  the  first  page,  and  ending  with  the  imprint  on  the  last. 

Garments  in  that  slate,  which  though  not  actually, "  shabby" 
may  be  described  as  "  seedy ;"  a  beaver,  which,  most  rusty  and 
napless,  was  carefully  brushed, — faded  gloves, — spatterdashes 
of  doubtful  hue,  covering  shoes  which  appeared  to  have  been 
made  for  a  much  larger  man — plain  buckles — a  lean  body — a 
confirmed  stoop — and  a  limited  expenditure  of  the  single  six- 
pence every  day,  without  any  gratuity  to  the  waiter,  so  very 
clearly  intimated  this  man's  condition,  that  if  a  customer 
asked  for  the  London  paper,  it  was  sufficient  to  say,  "the 
decayed  gentleman  has  it  in  hand." 

On  Christmas  eve,  honest  John  Weeks,  anxious  that  "  the 
decayed  gentleman  "  should  have  one  good  meal,  at  least,  in 
the  Bush,  addressed  him  as  he  was  quitting  the  cofiee-room, 
and  delicately  intimated  that,  on  the  following  day,  he  kept 
open  table,  at  which  all  who  could  not  obtain  good  Christmas 
dinners  at  home,  were  very  welcome  to  sit  down,  free  of  cost. 
The  "  decayed  gentleman"  looked  at  the  inn-keeper  with  some 
surprise,  and  smiled — but  he  presently  recovered  himself,  and 
retired  without  saying  a  word,  simply  bowing  his  acknow- 
ledgment. If  there  had  been  any  doubt  of  his  condition,  it  ' 
was  at  an  end  on  the  next  day,  when  punctually  at  one 
o'clock,  being  the  appointed  hour,  he  appeared  at  the  Bush, 
in  his  usual  seedy  attire.  In  virtue  of  his  being  a  stranger 
there,  and  the  appearance  of  having  seen  better  days,  he  was 
honoured  with  a  seat  at  the  upper  end  of  the  long  table,  even 


THE     BTTSH      GUINEA.  29 

next  to  John  Weeks  himself.  Ue  partook  of  the  good  dinner 
•with  the  apparent  relish  of  a  man  to  whom  such  a  feast  had 
long  been  a  novelty,  and  duly  did  justice  to  the  "stunning 
ale,"  for  which,  far  and  near,  the  Bush  then  was  famous. 
Now  and  then,  the  landlord  had  snatches  of  coilversation  with 
him,  and  very  soon  perceived  that  "  the  decayed  gentleman" 
was  shrewd  in  his  remarks,  and  had  evidently  sat  at  rich 
men's  tables  at  some  period  of  his  life. 

The  dinner  was  concluded.  The  landlord  retired  to  his 
bar,  into  which,  one  after  one,  straggled  his  guests,  and  then 
received  the  various  money-doles,  which  John  Weeks'  know- 
ledge or  suspicion  of  their  respective  wants  had  provided,  and 
apportioned  for  each.  The  "  decayed  gentleman  "  remained 
the  last  at  the  long  table — a  kind-hearted  waiter,  who  knew 
how  much  he  liked  to  read  the  London  paper,  and  knew, 
also,  that  he  had  not  visi^j^  the  coffee-house  that  morning, 
had  brought  down  tin-  broad  sheet  (Cowper's  folio  of  four 
pages),  and  "  the  decayed  genileraan"  read  it  by  the  kitchen 
fire,  after  his  dinner,  with  as  time  a. sense  of  enjoyment  in  it 
as  my  Lord  Duke  could  have  had  in  his  palatial  library. 
Presently,  there  came  a  message  from  some  civic  functionary, 
desirino:  the  attendance  of  the  landlord  of  the  Bush,  to  receive 
instructions  about  a  feast  which  was  to  be  given  at  the  Man- 
sion House,  on  the  new  year,  and  to  be  provided  from  the 
Bush.  Therefore,  when  departing  to  attend  to  this  important 
summons,  John  Weeks  called  his  head  waiter,  a  sagacious, 
well-powdered,  steady  man,  to  whom  he  confidentially 
entrusted  the  donation  which  he  had  set  aside  for  "  the 
decayed  gentleman,"  and  with  it  were  many  instructions  to 
exercise  great  delicacy  in  handing  him  the  gift;  "For,"  said 
John  Weeks,  "  it  is  evident  that  he  has  seen  better  days,  and 
we  should  have  regard  for  his  feelings,  Morris,  particularly  as 
he  is  a  stronger  in  the  city."     Thus  saying,  he  departed,  and 


30  TRESSILIAN. 

faithful  Morris   remained  to  execute  his  delicate  and  holy 
mission. 

Just  as  "  the  decayed  gentleman  "  was  leaving  the  house, 
and  when  there  Avas  no  witness  of  their  interview,  Morris 
blandly  and  respectfully  accosted  hirn,  and  slipping  a  guinea 
into  his  hand,  said,  "  My  master  requests,  sir,  that  you  will  do 
him  the  favour  to  accept  this,  and  he  is  sorry  that  his  being 
called  away  causes  it  to  come  through  my  hands."  The 
money  rested  in  the  palm  of  "  the  decayed  gentleman."  He 
looked  at  the  gold — he  looked  at  the  waiter — he  looked  at 
the  gold  again.  Morris  thought,  at  first,  that  he  intended 
returning  it.  But  "  the  decayed  gentleman,"  quietly  put  it 
into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  from  which  he  drew  a  card,  which 
he  handed  to  Morris,  saying  "  my  compliments  to  your  master, 
and  my  thanks.  This  is  my  name  and  address,  and  if  he 
should  ever  come  my  way,  or  think  that  I  can  do  him  any 
service,  I  beg  that  he  will  call  upon  me,  or  write."  He  but- 
toned his  coat,  went  away,  and,  from  that  day  to  this,  was 
never  again  seen  in  the  coflFee-roora  of  the  Bush.  The  inscrip- 
tion on  the  card  was  simply  "Thomas  Coutts,  59  Strand." 
The  owner  was  the  great  London  banker,  and  had  come  to 
Bristol  on  some  very  particular  business,  and  it  was  his 
humour  to  live  there  in  an  humble  manner. 

In  a  short  time  John  Weeks,  to  the  surprise  of  the  Bristo- 
lians,  purchased  the  Bush  Inn,  at  a  large  price,  from  Grifiith 
Maskelyne,  the  owner.  Next,  he  embarked  largely  in  the 
coaching  and  posting  department,  and  throve  abundantly. 
Soon  after,  when  a  bargain  was  to  be  had  of  some  land 
belonging  to  the  Corporation,  the  purchaser  Avas  John 
Weeks,  who  let  it  off  for  building  leases,  by  which  he 
obtained  twelve  to  fifteen  per  cent,  for  his  investment. 
Finally,  having  acquired  a  competency,  he  withdrew  from 
business,   and   went   to   live   on   an    estate   which   he   had 


i 


THE     BUSH      GUINEA.  31 

purchased  at  Shireliampton.  No  one  exactly  knew  liow  he 
had  obtained  the  capital  to  embark  in  great  speculations  so 
largely  as  he  did — but  his  drafts  upon  Coutts  and  Company, 
69  Strand,  were  duly  honoured,  and  to  her  dying  day,  among 
the  heirlooms  which  she  most  particularly  prized,  the  Duchess 
of  St.  Albans,  widow  of  Thomas  Coutts,  used  to  show  a  coin, 
richly  mounted  in  a  gorgeous  bracelet,  which  coin  bore  tho 
name  of  "  The  Bush  Guinea." 


32  TRESSILIAN. 

ITiere  arose  some  conversation,  suggested  by  this  anecdote, 
respecting  the  peculiarities  of  Coutts,  the  millionaire,  who 
was  an  original  character.  One  of  the  company  remembered 
that,  when  Sir  Francis  Burdett  was  at  the  height  of  his 
patriotism  and  popularity — how  often,  by  the  way,  does  the 
existence  of  the  first  hang  upon  the  breath  of  the  latter ! — 
Queen  Charlotte,  the  grandmother  of  Queen  Victoria,  who 
banked  with  him,  sent  him  a  verbal  message,  by  the  keeper 
of  her  privy  purse,  that,  as  property  would  be  insecure  should 
tlie  liberal  opinions  of  Burdett,  his  son-in-law,  unhappily 
obtain  predominance  in  the  country,  she  desired  to  withdraw 
her  balance,  and  gave  him  a  fortnight's  notice,  to  prevent  his 
being  in  any  way  embarrassed  by  such  a  large  demand. 
"  Very  considerate,  indeed  !"  said  Coutts.  "  Let  us  see  how 
much  it  may  amount  to !"  The  books  were  referred  to,  and 
the  Royal  deposit  was  found  to  amount  to  something  over 
two  millions  sterling.  Coutts  desired  a  cheque  for  the 
amount  to  be  filled  up  and  brought  to  him.  Affixing  his  signa- 
ture to  it — and  a  very  scrawling,  indistinct  autograph  it  was — 
he  handed  it  the  astounded  official,  with  the  words,  "There  is 
no  necessity  for  giving  you  the  trouble  of  a  second  journey 
here,  in  a  fortnight.  The  house  of  Thomas  Coutts  can  pay 
any  balance,  on  demand.  There  is  a  cheque  for  the  Queen's 
money,  on  the  bank  of  England,  payable  at  sight."  Within 
the  hour,  the  royal  messenger  was  again  in  presence  of  Mr. 
Coutts,  with  an  apology  from  the  Queen — an  assurance  that 
she  had  never  distrusted  the  solvency  of  his  bank,  or  the 
safety  of  her  money,  and  a  request  that  he  would  again  do 
her  the  favour  of  becoming  its  custodee." 

"The  anecdote  tells  so  well,"  said  Sir  Julian  Tressilian, 
" that,  if  not  true,  it  deserves  to  be;  as  the  Italian  proverb 
says,  Se  non  e  vero,  e  ben  trovato.  But  it  is  entirely  out  of 
the  order  or  probability  of  banking  affairs  that  the  Queen,  or 


THE     BUSH      GUINEA.  33 

any  person  else,  who  had  accumulated  two  millions  sterling, 
could  leave  that  amount,  or  even  a  tithe  of  it,  in  Coutts's 
hands,  deriving  no  interest  from  the  deposit.  Of  course,  the 
money  would  have  been  put  out,  in  public  and  other  securi- 
ties, to  fructify,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  even  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds  would  be  allowed  to  remain  by  the  Queen,  as 
her  floating  balance  in  the  bank. 

"  Less  apocryphal,"  he  added,  "  is  the  anecdote  of  his 
retort  to  the  good-natured,  but  most  extravagant  Duke  of 
York,  who  contrived  to  be  eternally  in  his  debt.  It 
happened  that,  like  his  more  careful  mother.  Queen  Charlotte, 
he  also  kept  an  account  at  Coutts's  bank.  On  one  occasion, 
after  a  dinner,  which  the  Prince  of  Wales  gave  at  Carlton 
House,  at  which  Mr.  Coutts  was  a  guest,  when  the  wine  was 
in,  and  the  wit  out,  the  Duke  of  York  insisted  on  a  bumper- 
toast,  and  enthusiastically  gave,  'Mr.  Coutts,  my  banker.' 
As  it  happened  that  the  millionaire  was  almost  always  much 
in  advance  to  the  Duke,  and  knew  the  full  value  of  a  royal 
compliment,  he  did  not  feel  embarrassed  by  the  compliment. 
Risinsr  from  the  table,  he  thus  returned  thanks : — '  I  am 
obliged  by  the  toast  which  has  just  been  given,  but  your 
royal  highness  has  made  a  trifling  mistake  in  naming  me  as 
your  banker.  It  is  you  who  do  me  the  honour  of  taking 
charge  of  my  money.'  The  Prince  of  Wales,  who  enjoyed  a 
joke,  exclaimed,  '  A  fair  hit,  by  Jove,  and  the  best  of  it  is, 
Coutts,  that  every  man  at  the  table,  one  time  or  other,  has 
done  the  same  for  you !'  " 

Mr.  Butler — he  who  haf?  been  introduced  as  the  novelist — 
remembered  that  Coutts  had  more  than  once  received  chai-ity 
from  persons  who,  like  worthy  John  Weeks,  of  Bristol,  had 
been  seduced  into  the  idea,  by  his  poverty-stricken  dress,  and 
attenuated  face  and  form,  that  he  was  a  needy  man,  too 
proud  to  beg.     "  As  we  have  got  on  the  track  of  this  million- 

•      2* 


34  TRES8ILIAN. 

aire,  I  recollect  a  story  apropos  of  one  of  this  order  of  men, 
■wliich  has  the  merit  of  brevity,  if  little  other." 

We  gladly  accepted  the  volunteer,  whose  story  was  to  this 
effect : — 


LE     MILLIONAIRE      MALGr6      LUI.  35 


LE    MILLIONAIKE   MALGElfe    LUI. 

Some  years  ago,  I  spent  six  weeks  at  Lyons,  waiting  the 
arrival  of  a  friend,  whom  I  was  to  accompany  to  Naples. 
Old  cities,  old  books,  and  old  friends,  are  what  exactly  suit 
my  taste.  Therefore,  Lyons — the  mural  queen  of  South 
Eastern  France, — was  calculated  to  challenge  my  attention. 
During  nineteen  eventful  centuries,  a  crowd  of  historical 
associations  have  become  linked  with  that  city ;  antiquity  is 
deeply  furrowed  on  its  aspect ;  its  commercial  operations  have 
made  it  a  stirring  and  wealthy  place;  its  public  institutions 
and  edifices  are  unsurpassed,  out  of  Paris;  its  approaches 
(either  from  Chalons  or  Marseilles)  are  through  a  lovely 
country,  which  seems  like  a  rich  vineyard,  skirted  and  shel- 
tered by  hills ;  and  its  inhabitants,  enriched  by  industry,  are 
hospitable  and  friendly.  Is  it  wonderful,  then,  that  Lyons  is 
a  place  of  which  I  keep  a  grateful  and  pleasant  memory  ? 

Loving  to  loiter  in  a  strange  city,  here  I  indulged  my 
humour  to  the  full,  and  sauntered  in  and  about  Lyons,  until  I 
knew  it  so  well,  that,  at  this  moment,  I  believe,  I  could  draw 
a  plan  of  the  place  from  mere  recollection.  It  was  pleasant 
to  cross  and  recross,  view  and  review  its  six  bridges  over  the 
sluggish  Saone,  and  its  three  over  the  more  rapid  Rhone; 
to  pace  through  its  fifty-nine  squares,  with  an  almost  daily  visit 
of  admiration  to  La  Bellecour  (one  of  the  finest  in  Europe), 
graced  by  the  noble  statue  of  that  Louis,*  whose  regal  boast, 

*  Louis  XIV.,  who,  for  more  than  half  a  century  after  the  death  of  Cardinal  Maza- 
tin,  governed  without  a  prime  minister. 


36  TRESSILIAN. 

'■'■  Vital  c'est  moi,^''  was  scarcely  an  exaggeration  ;  to  hunt  for 
antiquities  where  the  Forum  Trajani  had  stood  ;  to  examine 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  inferior  only  to  the  palatial  town-house  of 
Amsterdam  ;  to  copy  the  ow^re  inscriptions  on  the  monuments 
•which  embellish  the  beautiful  Necropolis  upon  the  hill  of 
Fouvieres :  to  feel  the  "  religio  loci,"  while  listening,  with 
hushed  awe,  to  the  sweet  and  solemn 

"  Stabat  mater  dolorosa," 

or  the  yet  more  touching  swell  of  the 

"  Dies  irae,  dies  ilia," 

reverberating  from  harmonious  voices  through  the  Gothic 
aisles  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  John  ;  or  to  regret  that  the  then 
recent  fall  of  the  tall  tower  of  Pitrat,f  prevented  my  viewing  to 
the  best  advantage,  the  natural  panorama  of  Lyons,  and  the 
beautiful  country  around  it. 

After  all,  these  loiterings  were  merely  episodal  in  ray  life 
at  Lyons,  when  I  had  discovered  that  the  library  there,  one  of 
the  finest  in  France,  was  especially  rich  in  manuscripts  and 
books,  upon  what  the  elder  D'Israeli  names  as  three  of  tho 
six  "follies  of  science," — alchemy,  astrology,  and  magic. 
These  are  among  the  most  graceful  superstitions  of  our  fore- 

tTliis  fewer  was  erected  on  an  eleTalion  to  the  north  of  the  city,  for  an  obserra- 
tory,  and  fell  down  in  1823.  It  has  been  re-erected,  and  rises  to  the  height  of  625 
French  feet  above  the  river.  The  view  from  this  is  unequalled  of  its  kind.  Lyons 
lies  at  your  feet,  spread  along  the  banks  of  the  Saone  and  the  Rhone,  which  meet 
here.  The  city  covers  the  peninsula  between,  and  appears  as  the  nucleus  of  a  vast 
population,  hived  in  clusters  of  villages,  which  join  its  suburbs,  and  gradually  break 
up  Into  hamlets,  manufactories,  and  chateaux.  Many  of  the  latter  may  be  observsd 
ten  miles  off,  delightfully  situated  on  the  southern  and  western  declivities  of  the  hills 
which  gird  the  plain.  Far  beyond,  and  towering  above  the  north-eastern  bound, 
Mount  Jura  and  the  eastern  range  of  the  Alps  are  visible,  and,  superior  to  them  all| 
at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  miles,  Mont  Blanc  may  be  seen,  like  a  huge  cloud 
between  the  gazer  and  the  verge  of  the  horizon. 


LE      MILLIONAIRE      MALGRf     LUI.  37 

fatlicrs,  and  I  confess  that  I  Lave  long  had  a  strong  curiosity 
to  learn  what  it  was  by  which  gifted  minds,  a  few  centuries 
ago,  were  held  in  a  strong  and  over-mastering  thrall.  The 
public  library  of  Lyons,  rich  in  this  peculiar  lore,  aflforded 
ample  opportunity  of  research,  and  I  spent  many  an  hour  in 
attempting  to  decipher  and  comprehend  the  mysterious 
revelations  by  which  Geber,  Artephius,  and  Nicholas  Flamel 
communicated  how  they  had  made  the  wonderful  Powder  of 
Projection,  by  which  the  meaner  metals  were  transmuted  to 
gold,  and  that  Elixir,  not  less  wonderful,  which  was  at  once  to 
renew  the  springs  of  life,  and  bestow  the  boon  of  immortality ! 
There,  too,  I  read  of  the  Cabala — with  their  ten  numerations 
called  Sephiroth,  their  holy  Sigils,  their  sacred  Pentacles,  and 
the  Tables  of  Ziruph,  or  magic  roll-call  of  the  seventy-two 
Angels,  whose  names  are  duly  recorded  by  Cornelius  Agrippa 
and  others,  as  if  they  were  in  the  habit  of  daily  communica- 
tion with  them.  And  there,  above  all,  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  examining  what  is  treasured  as  an  autograph  of  the  famous 
Astronomical  tables  of  Kinf;  Alfonso*. 

To  me,  much  loving  the  wild  imaginings  by  which  our 
elders  were  self-deceived,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  interest  in 
such  literary  rarities  as  I  have  mentioned.  To  examine  them 
was  fitting  occupation  for  an  idle  man,  fond  of  raising 
Chateaux  d^Espagne  of  a  difi'erent  order  for  himself,  and  who 
regarded  the  splendid  follies  of  science  as  the  spray  dashed 
up  by  the  adventurous  diver,  who  boldly  and  blindly  seeks 
the  pearl  of  Truth  in  the  ocean  of  Conjecture. 

It  happened,  fortunately  for  the  peculiar  course  of  inquiry 
I  had  fallen  upon,  that  Monsieur  Jean  Hervieu,  one  of  the 
sub-librarians,  was  something  more  than  a  mere  hander-out  of 


*  King  of  Castile  and  Leon,  in  the  thirteenth  century.    He  was  surnamed  El 
Sabio,  or  the  Learned. 


88  TRESSILIAN. 

volumes.  He  soon  saw  into  what  line  my  researches  traversed, 
and  saved  me  a  world  of  useless  trouble,  by  placing  before 
me,  at  once,  all  that  was  richest  and  choicest  in  that  peculiar 
line.  AVhen  I  left  Lyons,  I  had  many  regrets,  for  I  had  made 
friendships  there,  which  yet  continue ;  but  my  chief  sorrow 
was  that  poor  Hervieu,  with  abilities  and  tastes  of  a  high 
order,  should  be  lost  in  a  petty  situation  so  much  below  his 
merits. 

Two  years  passed,  and  I  went  to  winter  at  Paris ;  a  step 
which  I  recommend  none  to  take  unless  they  are  enamoured 
of  Arctic  temperature.  Shortly  after  my  arrival,  I  met  with 
my  quondam  acquaintance,  the  sub-librarian  of  Lyons.  He 
was  much  changed.  He  had  reached  the  dignity  of  wearing 
a  coat  out  of  the  viode^  which  none  but  a  wealthy  man  can 
afford  to  do.  His  manner,  too,  now  had  the  ease  and  self- 
possession  of  one  who  has  not  only  an  account  at  his  banker's 
but  a  pretty  considerable  balance  on  the  credit  side.  A  few 
days  afterwards,  while  discussing  some  unexceptionable  Bur- 
gundy, with  all  the  sober  deliberation  that  regal  wine  deserves, 
at  Monsieur  Hervieu's  country  house,  within  a  couple  of  leagues 
from  Paris,  the  secret  of  this  change  was  explained  by  him  in 
nearly  the  following  words. 


"  I  perceive,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  wonder  how  I  happen 
to  have  these  comforts  about  me ;  how  I  have  advanced  to 
the  dignity  of  a  millionaire.  In  truth,  it  is  what  I  often  find 
myself  wondering  at.  My  fortune  was  made  by  accident — 
in  spite  of  myself — in  a  word,  as  fortunes  scarcely  ever  are 
made,  except  in  romances  or  on  the  stage. 

"  When  you  knew  me,  two  years  ago,  I  contrived  barely  to 


LE      MILLIONAIRE      M  A  L  G  R  J^      LUX.  39 

exist  upon  eight  hundred  francs  a  year*,  and,  though  not 
very  extravagant,  had  a  few  debts,  which  it  had  been  as  easy 
to  incur,  as  I  found  it  difficult,  to  pay.  Two  acquaintances 
were  spending  an  evening  with  me,  when  the  portier  brought 
up  an  account,  with  a  pressing  message  very  Hke  a  threat, 
frorn — my  tailor.  I  had  no  means  of  settling  it,  but  the  ready 
answer  came,  'bid  him  call  to-morrow.'  The  bill  threw  a 
damp  over  all  of  us — for  our  circumstances  were  much  alike, 
— and  our  gaiety  took  wing. 

" '  It  is  a  pity,'  said  Louis  Boyer,  '  it  is  a  pity  that  we  have 
neither  wealth  nor  the  reputation  of  it,  which  is  just  as  good. 
What  a  lucky  thing  it  would  be  if  some  unknown  relation 
were  to  turn  up  and  bequeath  a  fortune  to  ope  of  us!' 

"  '  There's  little  chance  of  that,'  said  Charles  Berget ;  '  for 
my  part,  I  have  not  a  relation  in  the  world  who  would  leave 
me  a  sous.' 

"  '  And  for  mine,'  I  observed,  '  matters  are  very  much  the 
same  way;  but  I  remember  hearing  my  father  speak  of  a 
nephew  of  his  who  went  to  Cuba  or  Martinique,  when  I  was  a 
child.     Nothina:  was  ever  heard  of  him  since.' 

"  '  Famous  !'  cried  Louis  Boyer,  clapping  his  hands ;  *  I  have 
it  alh  We  must  brinof  him  on  the  stai^e,  endow  him  with 
immense  Avealth,  and,  as  he  must  be  childless,  make  him 
inquire  after  an  heir,  and  find  you  not  only  next  of  blood,  but 
his  only  relation.  1\\  one  word,  my  dear  friend,  we  must 
make  you  '  a  young  man  of  brilliant  expectations,  with  a 
rich,  liver-diseased  cousin  in  the  West  Indies,  who  has 
declared  you  his  heir  ! ' 

"'No,  no,'  chimed  in  Berget,  with  a  laugh,  '  this  "  expecta- 
tion" story  will  not  do.  Nothing  like  a  certainty.  The  rich 
cousin  must  die  ;  so — write  his  epitaph  forthwith  !     Let  me 

•About  $160. 


40  TKESSILIAN. 

see  :  Jacques  Ilervieu  leaves  Marseilles  twenty-five  years  ago, 
goes  to  Martinique,  makes  a  splendid  fortune  there,  leaves  five 
sugar-plantations,  and  hundreds  of  negroes,  to  his  cousin  Jeau 
Hervieu  of  Lyons.  The  whole  must  be  worth  two  millions 
of  francs,  at  least.  Give  me  your  hand,  my  dear  Jean  !  I 
wish  you  joy  of  your  change  of  fortune.  And  now,  mon  cher, 
we  must  drink  your  liealUi.' 

"  '  Of  course,'  said  Louis  Boyer :  *  and  pray,  now  that  he  is 
at  the  top  of  the  ladder,  that  he  will  not  forget  those  who 
were  his  friends  in  misfortune  !' 

"  '  Depend  on  me  !'  was  my  laughing  reply.  Then,  keeping 
up  the  jest,  we  solemnly  drank  to  the  memory  of  Jacques 
Hervieu,  aud  gaily  to  the  health  of  his  heir:  in  effect,  Mon- 
sieur, we  had  a  very  pleasant  evening. 

"  Charles  Berget,  I  should  tell  you,  was  connected  as  a  par- 
agraph writer,  with  the  Gazette  de  Lyon^  then  the  leading 
journal  of  the  place.  Passing  the  editorial  bureau,  on  his  way 
home,  he  extemporized  a  brief  announcement  of  Jacques  Her- 
vieu's  death,  and  the  disposition  of  his  '  immense  property  in 
Martinique,'  which,  without  any  challenge  as  to  its  authenti- 
city, was  duly  marked  for  insertion  in  the  next  number  of  the 
journal.  Of  course,  this  was  wholly  without  any  complicity 
of  mine. 

"  I  was  making  my  toilet  next  morning,  when  the  door  of 
my  attic  was  dashed  in,  and  half  a  score  of  my  young  acquain- 
tances rushed  to  me. 

"  '  We  wish  you  joy,  Hervieu  !'  they  all  cried  out,  with  one 
accord. 

"  '  Joy  ?  my  dear  friends !' 

"  '  That  you  should  become  heir  to  such  a  large  fortune  1' 

"  '  I  do  assure  you ' 

"'Just  at  the  time,  too,  when  colonial  j^roducehas  become 
so  valuable !' 


LE      MILLIONAIRE      MALGRE      LUI.  41 

" '  Believe  me,  it  is  only  a  joke ' 

"  '  Come,  come,'  said  half  a  dozen  voices,  at  once,  '  this  will 
not  do.  You  must  not  dream  of  denying  what  is  duly 
announced  in  the  Gazette  this  morning.  You  owe  us  a  fete  on 
getting  this  windfall,  and  must  not  try  to  creep  out  of  it. 
Where  shall  we  have  it,  and  when  V 

"  I  scarcely  know  how  I  got  rid  of  them  all.  But  I  shook 
them  ofl'  at  last.  Presently  I  heard  some  one  at  the  door  ; 
'  Come  in !' — it  was  one  of  them  come  back  to  borrow  a  few 
hundred  francs. 

" '  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  not  five  francs  in  the  world.' 

" '  I  see.  Your  remittances  from  Martinque  have  not  yet 
come  to  hand." 

"'Indeed  they  have  not,' said  I,  with  a  sigh.  The  bor- 
rower took  his  leave  with  some  formality ;  the  very  report 
that  I  was  rich  had  already  placed  a  gulf  between  me  and  my 
fellows. 

"  The  news  ran  through  Lyons  like  wildfire.  I  had  quite  a 
levee  during  that  forenoon.  The  worst  was,  it  was  quite  use- 
less to  protest — every  one  took  it  for  granted  that  I  had 
become  a  rich  man.  It  was  recollected  that  I  really  had  a 
cousin  named  Jacques  Hervieu,  who  had  gone  abroad  early 
in  the  Consulate.  There  was  an  old  sailor  who  had  even  seen 
him  take  ship  at  Marseilles,  for  Martinique — or  some  other 
foreign  place.  All  the  rest  followed  of  course,  that  he  had 
made  a  large  fortune,  and  had  bequeathed  the  whole  of  it  to 
me  1 

At  last,  I  was  again  alone.  There  came  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door.  Who  can  this  be  ?  thought  I.  It  was  my  tailor. 
He  sent  no  'little  account,'  this  time.  He  no  longer  dunned 
by  deputy.  He,  too,  had  heard  of  my  good  luck,  and  came 
for  his  money,  no  doubt !  I  too  well  remembered  that  I  had 
sent  a  message  for  him  to  call  for  his  fifty  francs. 


42  TRESSILIAN. 

"  *  Good  morninfr,  Monsieur  Passv,'  said  I,  trvinof  to  assume 
as  unconcerned  an  air  as  if  1  was  about  pajing  his  bill.  '  You 
have  come  for  your  money  ?' 

"  '  Surely,'  said  the  broadcloth  artist,  with  a  bow  and  a 
grimace  meant  for  a  smile,  '  surely,  monsieur  will  not  trouble 
himself  about  such  a  trifle.  You  will  permit  me  to  measure 
you  for  the  mourning  ?' 

"  At  the  moment,  I  had  forgotten  that  there  was  such  a 
place  as  Martinique !  Quite  mechanically,  I  allowed  him  to 
measure  me,  scarcely  heeding  what  he  said.  But,  when  he 
declared  that  he  could  not  have  had  more  than  one  suit 
finished  that  evening,  I  thought  it  right  to  put  an  end  to  the 
folly. 

"  '  I  assure  you,  Monsieur  Passy,  I  have  received  no  money.' 

"  '  Monsieur  is  too  considerate.  I  beg  he  will  not  speak  of 
payment.  But,'  he  continued,  '  monsieur  can  do  me  a  great 
service.  Y^ou  know  my  house ;  it  is  a  fine  building.  Buy  it 
of  me.  I  want  ready  money.  You  are  very  rich.  Fifty 
thousand  francs  are  nothincr  to  monsieur.  Y'^ou  will  want 
real  property  to  invest  your  great  capital  in.  I  shall  become 
bankrupt  for  want  of  some  ready  money.  M.  Bonnet  has 
proposed  to  buy  it,  but  is  so  long  making  up  his  mind,  that 
I  shall  be  ruined  before  he  decides.' 

"  '  But  why  should  /  buy  your  house  V 

"  '  Because  monsieur  may  not  only  serve  me  very  much, 
but  also  get  an  excellent  investment  for  himself.  It  is  in  an 
excellent  and  improving  thoroughfare,  and  will  be  worth  double 
the  money  in  a  few  years.  Thank  you,  monsieur.' — The  man 
of  measures  hurried  off  before  I  could  say  a  word,  happy  to 
proclaim,  far  and  near,  that  I  had  bought  his  house  ! 

"  Half  an  hour  after  he  quitted  me,  M.  Bonnet,  who  wa» 
very  rich  and  miserly,  and  fond  of  investments  in  real 
property,  did  me  the  honour  to  call.     He  made  bis  congra- 


LE      MILLIONAIRE      MALGRE      LDI.  43 

tulations  upon  my  good  fortune,  and  said,  'You  are  an 
excellent  man  of  business,  Monsieur  Hervieu,  and  a  prompt 
one.  I  live  next  door  to  our  friend  Passy,  and  want  his 
house,  I  was  sure  of  it.  I  had  offered  him  forty-five  thou- 
sand francs,  and  knew  he  ceuld  not  hold  out.  You  have 
outbid  me,  and  as  I  know  it  would  be  vain  to  attempt 
starving  out  yoii,  into  a  bargain,  I  shall  be  frank  with  you, 
and  offer  you  fifteen  thousand  francs  upon  your  purchase.' 

"I  did  not  jump  from  my  seat  in  surprise — because  the 
events  of  the  morning  had  prepared  me  for  almost  any  thing. 
I  had  presence  of  mind,  and  sufficient  prudence  to  suppress 
my  emotion,  and  affect  indifference.  I  requested  M.  Bonnet 
to  call  on  me  in  an  hour.     He  was  punctual. 

"  '  M.  Bonnet,'  said  I,  with  the  gravity  of  a  man  of 
business,  'I  do  not  actually  require  the  house,  and  you  may 
have  it  on  your  own  terms.'  He  grasped  my  hand  with 
energj',  declared  that  he  was  much  indebted  to  what  he 
called  my  'great  kindness,'  and  drawing  from  his  pocket- 
book,  fifteen  thousand  francs  in  bills  on  Paris  at  thirty  days, 
added,  'Here  is  your  premium,  monsieur.  You  shall  have 
no  farther  trouble  in  the  business,  as  I  shall  pay  your 
purchase  money  to  M.  Passy.' 

"  A  few  years  before,  I  had  received  a  small  legacy  from  a 
distant  relation,  through  a  commercial  house  in  Paris,  the 
only  firm  in  that  city  whose  name  I  knew — the  only  one 
acquainted  with  mine.  I  wrote,  accordingly,  requesting  their 
advice  as  to  the  investment  of  some  funds.  T  had  an 
answer  by  return  of  post,  telling  me  that  my  letter  had 
reached  them  when  the  book  for  the  Spanish  loan,  in  which 
their  house  had  a  share,  was  closing ;  and,  as  the  investment 
1%as  a  very  promising  one,  they  had  reserved  an  interest  of 
fifty  thousand  piastres  for  me.  If  I  did  not  lik:e  the  invest- 
ment, I  could  readily  and  profitably  sell  out  at  any  time,  as 


44  TRESSILlAlv'. 

tliat  stock  was  rising.     M.  Mififnon,  the  head  of  the  house 
appended  a  postscript^  in  his  own  hand-writing,   congratu- 
lating me  on  my  recent  good  fortune,  and  giving  me  the 
assurance  of  his  personal  desire  to  be  of  service  to  me  in  any 
mode. .  The  Martinique  romance  had  taken  wing  to  Paris. 

"Fifty  tliousaiid  piastres!  The  amount  of  the  sum  startled 
me.*  "Vyiiat  should  I  have  thought  had  I  known  that,  instead 
of  this  being  the  sum  invested  as  I  believed,  it  was  only  the 
first  deposit  on  my  investment !  I  wrote  to  say  that  they 
had  given  me  a  greater  interest  in  the  loan  than  I  desired. 

"I  had  a  prompt  reply,  stating  that  they  had  obeyed  my 
intimation — sold  out  half  my  investment,  at  a  premium  of  a 
hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francsf — taken  the  liberty  of 
reserving  thirty  shares  of  the  new  joint-stock  bank  in  Holland, 
which  was  certain  to  head  the  money  market  before  any  call 
was  made — would  insist  on  making  investments  for  me  when- 
ever profitable  opportunities  warranted  speculation  on  their 
own  account — and  begged  to  add  that,  fully  aware  of  the 
difficulty  of  an  immediate  settlement  of  a  great  colonial  pro- 
perty, they  had  opened  a  credit  to  my  account  with  their 
house,  which  I  might  use  as  I  pleased. 

"  This  was  all  very  puzzling.  An  apparent  gain  of  a  hundred 
and  sixty  thousand  francs !  Profits,  and  investments,  and 
credits !  I  could  make  nothing  of  it,  except  to  suspect  that 
Mignon  and  Company  of  Paris  had  lost  their  senses. 

"  In  the  mean  time,  I  was  the  lion  of  Lyons.  My  mourning 
suit  was  a  proof  positive  of  my  heirship.  I  was  teased  with 
calls  of  condolence  and  congratulation.  The  newspapers 
gave  anecdotes  of  my  cousin  Jacques  and  memoirs  of  myself. 
Ileaps  of  loving   and  hitherto  unknown  relations  sprung  up 

«: 
*  A  Spanish  piastre  is  worth  about  eighty-six  cents : — the  whole  amount  would  be 

143,000. 

t  $82,000. 


LE      MILLIONAIRE      MALGR^      LUI.  45 

on  all  sides,  claiming  gifts  and  loans.  Yet,  with  the  reputa- 
tion of  possessing  immense  wealth,  I  was  actually  in  want  of 
money  for  my  daily  expenses,  having  nothing  but  M.  Bon- 
net's bills,  which,  from  an  utter  ignorance  of  business,  I  did 
not  know  how  to  discount  into  current  cash.  My  place  in 
the  library  had  been  filled  without  consulting  me.  But  I  was 
rich^  and  people  contended  for  the  honour  of  my  patronage. 
I  still  lived  in  my  cheap  attic ;  but  that  was  put  down  to  great 
humility,  or  charming  eccentricity.  I  was  in  high  credit, 
and  quite  perplexed  with  my  situation.  I  resolved  to  go  to 
Paris,  and  having  said  so,  a  wealthy  manufacturer,  who  was 
about  proceeding  thither,  said  he  would  be  highly  flattered 
by  ray  accepting  a  seat  in  his  caleche,  which  I  did,  and  com- 
pletely won  his  heart  by  allowing  him  to  defray  all  the 
expenses  of  the  journey.  I  afterwards  found  that  he  had  a 
strong  notion  of  becoming  my  fether-in-law — if  he  could. 

"M.  Mignon  and  his  partners  received  me  with  all  tho 
respect  due  to  the  reputed  possessor  of  two  million  of  francs. 
Then,  like  proper  men  of  business,  they  opened  their 
books. 

"  '  The  Spanish  stock  is  still  rising,'  said  M.  Mignon.  '  I  am 
sorry  that  Monsieur  distrusted  it.' 

" '  What  may  be  the  exact  value  of  my  remaining  stock  iu 
the  Spanish  funds  V 

"'Your  account  stands  thus,'  replied  M.  Mignon,  'taking  it 
in  round  numbers.  The  Spanish  stock,  if  sold  now,  would 
pay  you  four  hundred  thousand  francs.  We  saw  occasion  to 
put  your  name  down  for  a  hundred  shares,  instead  of  thirty, 
in  the  new  bank;  each  share  is  already  worth  a  considerable 
advance — say  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs 
more.' 

"'Without  my  having  paid  any  thing?' 
^    "'Certainly.' 


46  TRESSILIAN. 

"'How. can  I  realize  these  profits,  and  make  a  good  per- 
manent investment  of  tliem  V 

" '  Nothing  safer,  if  Monsieur  will  take  up  Lis  profits  now, 
than  our  Five  per  Cents :  the  actual  rate  is  nearly  six.  You 
have  four  hundred  thousand  francs  in  the  Spanish,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  Dutch,  a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  by 
the  first  sale  of  Spanish — total,  over  seven  hundred  thousand : 
income,  say  forty  thousand  francs  per  annum,  in  round 
numbers.'* 

" '  And  when  can  this  be  invested  ?' 

" '  Whenever  Monsieur  pleases.  Will  he  favour  our  house 
with  the  negociation  V 

"'Assuredly,  M.  Mignon.  You  have  proved  yourself  enti- 
tled to  my  fullest  confidence.' 

"The  banker  bowed  his  thanks  for  the  compliment — and 
his  commission.  Placing  a  checkbook  before  me,  he  requested 
me  to  draw  any  sum  for  present  demands  that  I  required. 
Not  until  that  happy  moment  did  I  actually  realize  the  truth 
of  the  good  fortune  which  had  literally  been  forced  upon  me. 
I  accepted  M.  Mignon's  pressing  invitation  to  make  his  house 
my  abode  while  I  remained  in  Paris.  When  my  funds 
were  invested,  reserving  M.  Bonnet's  bills  of  fifteen  thousand 
francs,  for  current  use,  I  found  my  principal  in  the  Five  per 
Cents  yielding  me  over  forty  thousand  francs  a  year.  I  had 
sent  down  to  hire  a  chateau  near  Lyons,  and,  bidding  adieu  to 
my  friendly  bankers,  proceeded  to  take  possession  of  it. 

"  My  return  from  Paris  was  immediately  known  at  Lyons. 
My  friends  Boyer  and  Berget — who  had  seen  with  consterna- 
tion what  full  credence  their  Martinique  romance  had  obtained 
— knew  not  what  to  think  when   they  heard  of  my  having 


♦  This  would  show  M.  Ilervieu's  capital  to  be  about  $140,000,  and  his  annual 
Income  $8,500.    A  very  pretty  fortune  in  France. 


LE      MILLIONAIRE      MALGRE      LUI.  47 

gone  to  Paris ;  the  general  rumour  being  that  I  had  taken 
the  journey  for  the  purpose  of  proving  my  cousin's  wilh  I 
cannot  suppose  that  the^j  fancied  I  was  mad  enough  to  believe 
the  heirship  they  had  invented. 

"  They  thought  it  right  to  call  upon  me.  My  house,  my 
furniture,  my  caleche,  my  greys,  my  servants,  successively 
astonished  them.  I  amused  myself  with  their  surprise  for  a 
few  hours,  and  undeceived  them,  at  last.  They  were  indeed 
surprised,  and  warmly  complimented  me  on  the  ability  which, 
they  said,  I  had  displayed.  No — I  had  merely  turned  cir- 
cumstances to  good  account. 

"  I  had  another  visit  shortly  after.  It  was  from  M.  Felix, 
an  old  friend  of  mine.  He  was  a  manufacturer  in  moderate 
circumstances  who  had  known  me  from  childhood.  '  I  paid 
you  no  visit,  my  dear  Jean,'  said  he,  '  while  I  believed  that  a 
golden  shower  had  fallen  upon  you.  But  I  call  upon  you 
now,  to  say  that  it  is  time  this  farce  were  at  an  end.  Wher- 
ever T  go,  I  hear  it  whisj^ered  that  you  have  lost  your  senses, 
or  are  willingly  lending  yourself  to  a  monstrous  cheat.  I 
might  have  believed  what  every  one  says ;  but  poor  Louise — 
you  have  not  forgotten  Louise  ? — declares  that  she  is  certain 
your  principles  are  not  corrupted,  and  that,  if  the  whole 
matter  be  a  cheat,  as,  indeed,  it  seems  to  be,  you  are  more 
deceived  than  deceiving.  The  proprietors  of  the  Gazette  de 
Lyon  have  called  upon  your  associate,  Charles  Berget,  to 
explain  on  what  authority  he  wrote  the  paragraph  about 
your  cousin's  death  that  has  deceived  the  whole  of  Lyons. 
Fear  not,  he  has  refused  all  explanation,  and  will  not  betray 
you.  But  he  has  been  this  day  dismissed  from  his  situation. 
Give  over  this  matter,  my  dear  Jean.  If  you  want  money  to 
settle  yourself  in  the  world,  in  an  honest  way,  I  will  lend  you 
what  I  can  spare,  and  in  a  few  years  you  may  retrieve  your 
character  as  an  honest  man.' 


48  TRESSILIAN. 

"  '  Dear  Louise  would  not  believe  any  ill  of  me  V 

"  'No,  indeed,'  said  M.  Felix.  'At  first,  when  we  heard 
that  you  had  become  rich,  she  wept  bitterly,  and  said,  '  Then 
we  shall  see  no  more  of  M.  Hervieu ;  he  will  forget  his  old 
friends.'  But,  when  she  heard,  as  every  one  now  says,  that 
you  are  not  rich,  she  recovered  her  spirits,  and  said,  '  We 
shall  have  Jean  with  us  again — when  he  is  poor,  he  will  be 
certain  to  come  back  and  visit  us  as  he  used  to  do.'  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  called  on  you  to-day,  if  Louise  had  not 
urged  me.  She  bade  me  tell  you  that,  hear  what  she  may, 
she  never  will  believe  that  Jean  Hervieu,  whom  she  had 
known  since  they  were  children  together,  could  do  an  act  of 
dishonour.' 

"  I  did  not  I'egret  the  aspersions  upon  my  character,  since 
they  were  the  cause  of  shewing  me  that  I  had  one  sincere 
friend,  at  least.  One  of  the  uses  of  adversity  is  to  try  and 
prove  regard.  It  was  due  to  M.  Felix,  that  I  should 
undeceive  him,  as  to  the  real  state  of  the  question.  He  was 
much  surprised,  as  he  well  might  be.  'Louise  will  be  so 
happy,'  said  he,  'for  she  insisted  that  you  were  slandered. 
But  I  hope  that  Monsieur  Hervieu  will  not  forget  us  because 
he  is  rich,  after  all.' 

"  '  My  dear  friend,'  I  replied,  '  you  must  still  call  me  your 
^pauvre  Jean,'  as  you  used  to  do  when  you  heaped  kindness 
after  kindness  on  the  orphan  ;  and  it  will  go  hard  with  me, 
if  I  do  not  convince  Louise,  before  long,  that  she  is  not  one 
whom  I  am  likely  to  forget.' 

"  The  bubble  burst,  a  few  days  after  this  visit  from  M.  Felix. 
No  one  knew  what  to  make  of  the  whole  story.  The  very 
existence  of  Jacques  Hervieu  became  doubted ;  the  old  seaman 
who  had  seen  him  embark  at  Marseilles,  declared  it  was 
somebody  else.  Some  people  thought  me  crazy.  M.  Bonnet 
said,  '  A  splendid  hoax  !  it  cost  me  fifteen  thousand  francs ! ' 


LK     MILLIONAIRE      MALORE      LUI.  49 

At  length,  the  storm  descended.  My  creditors  came  in  a 
body  to  dun  me.  Charles  Berget  (whom  I  had  made  my 
steward — it  was  the  least  I  could  do,  as  he  had  lost  his  news- 
paper situation  on  my  account),  paid  all  their  accounts,  and 
then  gave  them  a  splendid  entertainment.  Public  opinion 
instantly  veered  round  in  my  favour.  Jacques  Hervieu  has 
not  yet  appeared,  and  the  Lyonese  are  undecided  whether  I 
really  did  obtain  wealth  from  Martinique,  or  made  a  lucky 
hit  by  speculation.  The  only  man  in  Lyons  who  does  know, 
except  M.  Felix,  is  Louis  Boyer,  to  whom  I  lent  a  few  thou- 
sand francs,  with  which  he  has  entered  a  commercial  firm, 
and  will,  probably,  make  a  fortune — not  quite  so  rapidly  as 
I  did. 

"  This  is  my  story.  Monsieur.  I  take  my  place  in  society 
as  a  man  of  forty  thousand  annual  income,  and  people 
call  me  a  millionaire.  I  am  wealthy,  simply  because  people 
would  have  it  that  I  was  rich — though  I  protested  that  I 
was  not. 

"  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Let  us  drink  to  the  memory  of 
Jacques  Hervieu  1" 


It  is  a  singular  story,  said  I,  and  it  is  a  pity  that,  to  gi\'e  an 
air  of  romance  to  a  narrative  literally  crowded  with  francs, 
bankers'  accounts,  speculations,  and  investments,  it  does  not 
wind  up — as  every  true  tale  does — with  love  and  marriage. 

"  Precisely  so !"  replied  Hervieu,  "  and,  therefore,  let  it  not 
surprise  you,  if,  in  a  fortnight  from  this  very  day,  you  receive 
an  invitation  to  assist  in  a  ceremon}',  which,  while  it  will 
change  the  fair  Louise  into  Madame  Hervieu,  I  hope  may 
leave  her  Felix — in  every  thing  but  name  !" 


50  T  R  K  S  S  I  L  I  A  N. 

"It  is  not  every  one,"  said  Tressilian,  joining  in  the  conver- 
sation, after  this  story,  "  who  can  contrive  to  keep  the  wealth 
he  has  won  by  speculation.  I  scarcely  ever  knew  one  of 
these  millionaires  of  the  moment,  who  retained  what  he  had 
gained  with  scarcely  an  effort.  'Lightcome,  lightly  go, 'should 
be  the  motto  of  this  class.  It  might  be  said  of  a  money- 
man  of  this  order,  what  was  tartly  said  of  a  popular 
author,  that  if  he  goes  up  like  a  rocket,  he  comes  down 
like  a  stick.  It  is  the  same  with  what  has  been  w^on  at  the 
gambling-table,  it  does  no  permanent  good  to  those  who 
gain  it.  I  do  not  remember  a  single  gambler,  who  has 
retired  without  actual  loss  in  the  long  run.  Speculation, 
which,  in  a  few  weeks,  would  fain  make  the  colossal  fortunes 
steady  enterprise  and  integrity  take  years  of  labour  to  amass, 
is  but  a  sort  of  gaming  after  all,  and  moved,  as  to  its  results, 
by  the  same  influences.  But,"  he  added,  "  I  must  beg  the 
ladies  to  pardon  me  for  philosophizing." 

"  Our  sex,"  said  Lady  Morton,  "  will  scarcely  thank  Sir 
Julian  Tressilian  for  the  inference,  that  we  cannot  appreciate 
or  enjoy  serious  discourse.  I  suppose  he  would  limit  the 
subjects  upon  which  our  attention  should  be  engaged,  to 
small  talk  about  frills  and  flounces — laces  and  muslins — 
fashions  and  scandal." 

A  protest  from  the  gentleman,  that  he  could  not  have  been 
guilty  of  petite  irahison  of  such  a  description,  was  retorted  by 
the  lady,  that  he  had  been  condemned,  without  the  liberty  of 
appeal.  "  Your  punishment,"  said  she,  "  shall  not  be  a  very 
heavy  one.  You  have  heard  these  gentlemen  severally  relate 
a  story,  and  the  judgment  of  the  court  is,  that  you  follow  so 
excellent  an  example ;  and  your  pardon  shall  be  the  more 
plenary,  if  you  relate  a  personal  adventure." 

"I  shall  rejoice,"  said  he,  "to  fulfil  my  destiny,  or  submit 
to  my  doom,  which  ever  wording  may  best  please  your  lady- 


THEBARONET.  61 

ship,  so  it  be  understood  by  this  goodly  company,  that  each 
of  them,  before  we  leave  Matlock,  shall  do  likewise," 

"  The  gentlemen,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  fair  dame,  "  will  con- 
sent to  the  arrangement." 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "but  it  must  extend  to  the  ladies 
also." 

Lady  Morton  said,  that,  on  that  head,  the  parties  concerned 
must  consult.  But  when  she  turned  round.  Lady  Tressilian'a 
chair  was  vacant — its  fair  occupant  had  retired  a  few  minutes 
before.  Then,  with  a  charming  smile,  which  appeared  quite 
irresistible.  Lady  Morton  said,  that  she  believed  the  majority 
would  be  against  her  if  she  resisted,  and  therefore,  yielding  to 
numbers,  like  many  other  combatants,  she  must  even  assent 
to  the'  terms  proposed. 

Sir  Julian,  therefore,  consented  to  be  the  next  story-teller. 
He  was  a  fine-looking  man,  upon  whose  brow  middle  age 
had  scarcely  yet  set  its  signet.  His  appearance  was  prepos- 
sessing; he  had  an  ingenuous  and  winning  expression  of 
countenance ;  and  this,  as  well  as  a  fine  person,  and  an  air 
distingue,  must  have  once  done  considerable  havoc  among 
female  hearts,  and  doubtless  would  still  have  been  successful, 
but,  from  the  first  moment  we  saw  him,  it  was  evident  that 
his  attentions  were  reserved  for  the  lady  who  sate  by  his  side, 
and  with  whom  he  seemed  to  be  on  especial  good  terms. 

In  the  earlier  part  "of  the  evening,  we  had  noticed  what 
seemed  exceedingly  like  flirtation  between  them ;  that  inter- 
change of  looks  which  shows  the  freemasonry  of  the  heart ; 
varying  tones,  which,  in  their  modulation,  told  to  each  other 
far  more  than  was  meant  for  the  common  ear;  smiles,  which 
well  became  the  manly  cheek  of  the  gentleman,  and  the  fair 
countenance  of  the  dama  : — all,  in  fact,  which  would  have 
been  of  rather  a  suspicious  and  suggestive  character,  but  from 
the  knowledge  gained  from  his  lips,  within  ten  minutes  after 


52  TRESSILIAN. 

be  Lad  frankly  made  our  acquaintance,  tliat  tlie  lady  was — 
his  wife. 

She  was,  indeed,  as  attractive  a  person  as  ever  it  has  been 
my  fortune  to  look  upon.  Perhaps,  one  might  think  her  not 
quite  young  enough  to  figure  as  the  heroine  of  a  love-story. 
It  was  difficult  to  discover  her  age  from  her  looks  and  figure. 
The  latter  was  slight,  as  if  she  had  not  long  emerged  from 
the  gracefulness  of  "  sweet  seventeen ;"  while  looking  at  her 
face,  you  might  doubt  whether  she  was  five-and-twenty,  or 
some  ten  years  older.  Hers  was  an  aspect  which,  even  in 
age,  would  probably  retain  much  of  the  expression  of  youth ; 
for,  as  Byron  says, 

"  There  are  forms  which  Time  to  touch  forbears, 
And  turns  aside  his  scythe  to  vulgar  things." 

She  appeared  imbued  with  that  glorious  sunshine  of  the 
heart,  which  is  the  best  cosmetic  in  the  world.  I  am  wholly 
at  a  loss  for  words  to  describe  the  character  of  her  beauty — 
living,  breathing,  real.     Was  it  beauty  ? 

•'  Oh,  no  I  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still  1" 

The  features  were  fine  in  their  ensemble,  though,  taken 
separately,  they  were  not  what  you  would  call  "  beautiful." 
They  had  that  best  of  graces — the  grace  and  charm  of 
Expression,  which  sometimes  irradiates  even  an  ordinary  face, 
and  rests  on  handsome  features  like  an  aureol  on  a  Madonna's 
pure  forehead.*  There  was  something  in  her  piquant  air — 
her  espiegle  glance,  from  hazel  eyes  at  once  bright  and  soft ; 
her  lovely  alternations  of  colour,  for  there  fitfully  gleamed  a 
rose-tinted  glow  through   her   skin,  "darkly  beautiful"  as 

*  "  And  on  her  head,  a  glory — like  a  saint's." — Keats. 


MATRON      BEAUTY.  53 

Kaled's, — her  brow,  clear  as  alabaster, — her  glossy  hair,  with 
its  slight  natural  wave,  tasteful  and  simple  in  its  arrange- 
ment,— and,  above  all,  in  her  earnest  look,  breathing  as  much 
natural  goodness  as  ever  illumined  any  countenance — which, 
taken  altoirether,  formed  something  far  better  than  the  mere 
statuesque  loveliness  at  which 

"  We  start — for  soul  is  wanting  there." 

It  was  pleasant  to  notice  that  her  helpmate  considered  her 
the  very  incarnation  of  all  that  was  excellent.  •  So  attentive, 
so  very  attentive,  was  he  to  her,  that,  as  I  have  said,  we  might 
have  suspected,  at  first,  that  they  were  but  recently  married ; 
but,  on  observation,  we  could  perceive  that  his  was  a  more 
temperate  and  calm  attention  than  is  paid  by  the  bridegroom 
to  the  bride  ;  and  the  manner  in  which  the  lady  received  his 
little  kindnesses  (the  farthest  possible  from  any  thing  like 
those  the  newly-wedded  too  often  so  foolishly  exhibit),  clearly 
showed  that  she  had  long  been  accustomed  to  the  homage. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  charming  specimen  of  marriage  as  it 
should  be.  The  husband  kind,  affectionate,  and  gentle ;  the 
wife  not  less  so,  but  with  a  more  delicate  tenderness,  the 
exquisite  sentiment,  as  it  were,  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
crucible  of  wedded  life,  after  Love  has  passed  through  the 
fiery  heat  of  Passion,  and  become  sublimed  into  hearted 
Friendship.  Theirs  was  an  interchange  of  the  most  delight- 
ful courtesy  imaginable,  springing  from  the  heart,  and  best 
nurtured  there.  Alas!  not  always  is  it  so.  Many  a  hearth 
is  desolate,  though  the  wedded  sit  by  it — smiles  to  the  world 
around  them,  but  worse  than  cold  to  each  other.  Many  a 
heart  may  brokenly  live  on,  though  mirth  can  light  the 
countenance,  and  smiling  wit  vivify  conversation  with  its 
flashes.      Better    the   grave   than   this   death-in-life,   which 


64  TRES81LIAN. 

palsies  exertion,  and  confuses  thought,  and  fetters  imagina- 
tion, and  teaches  the  lips  to  wear  smiles,  with  the  arrow 
rankling  in  the  unseen  wound.  The  Spartan,  concealing  the 
strong  agony  which  was  preying  upon  his  life,  had  not  a 
stronger  struggle  to  seem  calm  than  those  of  whom  I  write. 

All  of  us  had  been  interested  from  the  first,  in  this 
agreeable  couple,  and  now  (the  lady  not  having  returned),  all 
felt  delighted  when  her  husband  kept  his  promise,  and  rapidly 
told  his  story  thus : — 


TRESSILIAn's     8T0RT.  55 


TKESSILIAN'S     STORY. 

Mr  name  is  Julian  Tressilian,  as  you  already  know.  My 
family  came  from  Cornwall,  where  they  had  been  settled  long 
before  the  Conquest.  My  grandfather  was  made  a  baronet 
by  George  the  Second  for  his  active  services  as  a  volunteer, 
when  the  islo  was  frightened  from  its  propriety,  by  the  Rebel- 
lion of  1745.  There  is  a  family  tradition,  that  on  this  occa- 
sion he  rejected  a  peerage,  declaring  that  he  would  rather  be 
the  first  of  the  gentry,  than  the  last  of  the  nobility. 

My  father  was  a  younger  son.  Like  most  of  the  class,  he 
early  made  what  was  called — a  foolish  marriage.  That  is,  he 
married  a  woman  whom  he  loved,  and  who  very  dearly  loved 
him,  but  whose  family  could  not  be  traced  back  more  than  a 
few  generations.  His  marriage  arrayed  his  relations  against 
him — made  him,  in  short,  the  Pariah  of  the  family.  He  was 
young,  spirited,  and  ardent,  so  he  solaced  himself  with  the 
happiness  of  wedded  life.  I  verily  believe,  that  he  with 
narrow  means,  was  far  happier  than  his  elder  brother,  with 
the  title,  and  the  rich  estate,  and  the  family  tree,  with  its 
Saxon  roots,  and  its  branches  sometimes  shooting  into  alliance 
with  noble  and  even  royal  personages. 

My  eldest  uncle,  the  baronet,  was  a  haughty  man,  who  could 
not  relish  the  thought  that  his  brother  was  not  quite  as 
wealthy  as  he  should  have  been,  had  he  married  the  heiress 
whom  it  had  been  arranged  he  might  have  had.  Selfish,  as 
well  as  proud,  my  imcle  did  not  think  of  bettering  my  father's 


60  ,  TRESSILIAN. 

circumstances  out  of  his  own  ample  resources,  but  offered  to 
procure  him  a  situation  in  Ireland — one  of  the  Government  — 
appointments  by  which  obsequious  votes  in  the  Ilouse  of 
Commons  were  then  rewarded.  My  uncle,  I  should  have 
told  you,  had  a  "  leading  interest "  in  two  boroughs.  The 
offer  was  ungraciously  made,  but  it  was  not  declined,  for  its 
emoluments  were  necessary;  so  my  father  accepted  it,  remov- 
ing himself  and  his  wants  from  the  vicinity  of  his  jjroud 
brother. 

I  was  an  only  child.  While  I  was  yet  very  young,  my 
mother  died  ;  and  I  had  completed  my  twentieth  year,  when 
it  pleased  Providence  that  my  father  should  follow  her. 

Ilis  illness  was  very  brief.  He  told  me,  only  an  hour 
before  his  death,  what  indeed,  I  had  long  suspected,  that  he  had 
fully  lived  up  to  his  income,  and  had  not  taken  the  precaution, 
so  requisite  for  persons  whose  incomes  terminate  with  their 
lives,  of  securing  provision  for  me  by  means  of  an  insurance. 
lie  was  constantly  saying  that  he  would  commit  this  act  of 
prudence,  but  he  had  deferred  it  from  time  to  time,  until 
it  was  too  late.  The  fact  was  that — as  only  two  brothers, 
with  their  families,  stood  between  him  and  the  baronetcy — 
he  had  secretly  calculated  on  the  succession,  at  some  time  or 
other.  In  this  foolish  expectation  he  had  latterly  lived — 
rather  according  to  his  hopes  than  his  means.  The  result 
was  that,  when  all  his  debts  were  paid,  I  found  myself  master 
of  less  than  a  hundred  pounds.  This  was  the  whole  of  my 
worldly  possession  at  tlie  time. 

I  had  greater  treasures,  however,  although  less  readily 
convertible  into  food  and  clothing.  I  had  youth,  with  its 
sanguine,  hopeful  spirit.  I  had  energy,  without  which  noth- 
ing exalted  can  ever  be  dared  or  done.  I  had  confidence  in 
myself.  More  than  all,  I  had  received  a  good  education. 
My  instructors  had  reported  me  as  an  idle  boy  who  could 


tressilian's  story.  51 

learn  if  he  would.  For  the  last  three  or  four  years  after  I 
had  left  school,  I  had  "taken  to  learning,"  as  the  saying 
is  in  Ireland,  and  as  the  proficiency  thus  acquired  had 
somewhat  made  up  for  past  carelessness,  I  had  obtained  a 
fair  share  of  general  information.  The  necessity  for  exer- 
tion was  now  a  stimulus  to  my  ambition.  I  resolved  to  go 
to  London,  and  not  having  been  brought  up  to  any  pro- 
fession, there  adventure  in  the  paths  of  literature. 

One  of  my  first  steps,  on  my  father's  death,  had  been  to 
write  to  my  uncle,  Sir  Edgar  Tressilian,  acquainting  him  with 
the  fact.  In  due  course,  T  received  a  letter  of  condolence, 
formal  and  cold,  informing  me  that  his  own  health  was  excel- 
lent; that  one  uncle  had  just  broken  his  neck  in  leaping  a 
double-ditch  in  a  steeple-chase;  that  the  other,  who  had 
five  sons — how,  in  the  name  of  common-sense,  could  my  poor 
father  anticipate  tliat  all  these  who  stood  between  him  and 
the  baronetcy,  would  be  so  complaisant  as  to  die? — was 
well  and  flourishing ;  and  that  the  tone  of  independence  in 
my  letter  forbade  his  presuming  to  offer  any  advice  as  to  my 
position  and  prospects.  Disgusted  with  the  coldness  of  this 
epistle,  I  threw  it  into  the  fire,  and  was  about  sending  the 
franked  envelope  to  keep  it  company,  when  I  saw  a  few  lines 
pencilled  within.     I  remember  them  well.     They  were  these: 

"Dearest  Cousin, 

"Never  mind  my  father's  letter.  He  gave  it  to  me  to 
seal,  and  thus  I  have  chanced  to  read  it.  He  does  not  mean 
the  harshness  which  he  writes.  I  am  quite  sure  he  would 
be  glad  to  see  you  at  Tressilian  Court.  Knowing  that  you 
cannot  have  an  excess  of  the  goods  of  Fortune,  I  must  entreat 
that  you  will  oblige  me  by  using  what  I  shall  send  to-morrow. 
I  do  not  require  it,  and  it  may  be  of  service  to  you. 

"Emma." 
3* 


58  TRESSILIAN. 

Next  day  came  a  second  and  a  longer  letter  from  my 
cousin  Emma.  It  enclosed  £50 — the  savings  or  surplus  of 
her  pocket  money.  I  was  greatly  obliged  by  this  kind  and 
thoughtful  gift,  and  was  not  too  proud  to  accept  of  it. 

When  I  first  saw  London,  I  had  only  turned  my  twentieth 
year.  I  entered  the  mighty  city  as  many  a  man  entered  it 
before  me — that  is,  as  a  literary  adventurer.  My  money  was 
soon  spent,  for  I  did  not  then  know  its  value.  My  spirits 
sunk  with  my  sinking  fortunes.  I  had  formed  no  extrava- 
gant hopes  of  success,  but  1  confess,  that  I  had  expected  to 
meet  with  some  employment  for  my  pen.  But  there  ever 
arose  this  difficulty — I  was  not  only  very  young,  but  wholly 
unknown.  Publishers  and  editors  received  me  politely,  but 
asked  not  what  I  could  do,  but  what  I  had  done  ?  I  was 
quite  a  stranger,  wholly  untried,  and  they  were  naturally  un- 
willing to  risk  the  experiment  of  engaging  with  one  who  had 
yet  to  make  a  name.  I  did  not  blame  them,  even  then,  and 
I  certainly  cannot  blame  them  now.  It  was  one  of  the 
liabilities  of  the  career  upon  which  I  had  entered  ;  and  I  felt 
that  if  some  lucky  chance  in  the  chapter  of  accidents  did  not 
turn  up,  it  was  possible  that  I  might  never  have  the  opportu- 
nity of  shewing  what  I  really  could  do.  Of  all  the  misfor- 
tunes in  all  this  mortal  life,  I  know  few  more  heart-sickening 
than  that  of  a  man  of  letters,  who  feels  that  he  has  the  ability 
to  do  what  would  give  him  high  reputation,  but  cannot 
obtain  the  opportunity  of  getting  the  wished-for  field  of  action 
for  that  ability. 

You  may  be  sure  that  I  did  not  forget  to  solicit  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  newspaper  press.  Here,  again,  the  same 
thing  occurred.  Men  of  at  least  equal  ability  with  myself, 
and  the  full  experience  wlii(;h  I  did  not  possess,  naturally 
were  engaged;  and  while  I  lamented  the  fact,  I  could  not 
wonder  at  it.     I  stooped — if  a  man  can  be  said  to  stoop  when 


trkssilian's    story.  69 

he  seeks  for  honest  employment — I  stooped  even  to  solicit 
the  situation  of  reader  in  a  printing-ofRce  :  the  same  result — 
I  wanted  experience,  and  employers  care  not  to  pay  a  man, 
and  also  show  him  how  to  do  his  business,  and  wait  until  ho 
has  learned  it.  Then,  as  I  wrote  a  fair  hand,  and  was  a 
good  accountant,  I  endeavoured  to  obtain  the  situation  of 
mercantile  clerk,  but  I  had  no  one  to  whom  to  refer  for 
character,  and  give  the  requisite  security  for  probity.  It  was 
the  same  with  every  thing  I  tried — there  always  was  some 
excellent  impediment  to  my  success.  I  might  have  been  own 
brother  to  the  unfortunate  gentleman  who  complained  that, 
if  he  had  been  a  hatter,  it  was  probable  the  human  race 
would  have  been  born  without  heads. 

At  last,  after  I  had  been  in  London  for  some  months,  I  was 
so  fortunate  as  to  obtain  employment.  Heaven  knows  it  did 
not  come  before  it  was  wanted,  for  my  resources  wei'e  literally 
in  extremis.  Why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  confess  that  I 
have  known  what  it  is  to  want  food  for  more  than  a  day,  for 
I  had  to  depend  for  mere  existence  on  the  remuneration 
'(slight  enough  at  all  times),  which  I  could  obtain  for  such 
light  articles  of  literature  or  criticism  as  I  had  disposed  of  to 
the  magazines  and  weekly  periodicals.  But  now,  a  more 
certain  and  remunerative  field  for  literary  exertion  was  opened 
to  me.  I  was  engaged  as  a  principal  contributor  to  a  biogra- 
phical work  of  some  pretensions,  and  I  prepared  to  enter 
upon  it  with  the  earnestness  and  industry  which  are  requisite 
for  such  a  purpose.  I  had  established  a  character  for 
punctuality  and  readiness  while  casually  contributing  to  one 
of  the  magazines,  and  this  induced  its  proprietor  to  offer  me 
this  engagement,  which  was  prosperity  itself,  compared  with 
the  condition  out  of  which  my  recent  struggles  had  not  been 
able  to  extricate  me. 

On  a  fine  April  morning,  as  I  passed  through  the  streets  of 


60  TRESSILIAN. 

London,  truly  alone  in  their  peopled  solitude,  I  accidentally 
passed  by  St.  George's  Church,  Hanover  Square,  just  as  a 
bridal  party  was  entering  that  fashionable  building.  Curiosity 
led  me  in,  to  witness  the  performance  of  the  marriage  service. 
The  bride  was  a  charming  girl,  on  the  very  verge  of  woman- 
hood— not  more  than  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  scarcely 
looking  as  old.  She  was  precisely,  on  that  day,  what  Byron 
meant,  when  he  described  Aurora  Raby  as 

"  A  rose,  with  all  its  petals  yet  unfolded." 

The  bridegroom  was  about  four  times  her  age.  It  certainly 
was  not  a  love-match  ;  but  neither  did  it  appear  to  be  a 
forced  marriage.  The  young  lady  exhibited  no  appearance 
of  regret  at  what  /  could  not  help  thinking  a  great  sacrifice. 
She  demeaned  herself  with  graceful  elegance,  and  may  be 
said  to  have  gone  through  the  ceremony  "as  well  as  could 
be  expected." 

At  the  age  of  one-and-twenty,  if  ever,  a  man  may  have  a 
little  romance  in  his  mind.  What  a  dull  plodder  is  he  who 
lias  not.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  always  been  building 
castles  in  the  air ;  and,  on  that  day,  looking  upon  that  young 
and  beautiful  bride,  I  felt  a  strong  regret  that  she  should 
have  been  so  unmeetly  matched,  to  Age ;  that — shall  I  own 
the  weakness? — that  she  was  not  more  meetly  mated  to 
myself. 

Up  to  that  hour,  I  had  been  heart-fi-ee.  While  gazing  oq 
this  fair  girl,  the  arrow  entered  into  my  soul.  It  was  foolish — 
it  was  wrong.  I  knew  that ;  but  I  could  not  help  lingering 
for  a  parting  and  nearer  gaze  upon  her.  To  look  on  such 
beauty  was  nothing  wrong ;  to  look  on  it  and  love  it,  on  the 
moment,  as  I  did,  was. 

At  last,  the  ceremony  waa  concluded.    I  hastened  out  of 


tressilian's    story.  61 

the  churcli,  to  catch  a  parting  glimpse.  A  carriage  was 
drawn  up  to  the  steps.  The  aged  bridegroom  hastened  down 
them  as  rapidly  as  his  infirmities  would  allow,  the  bride 
supporting  him  rather  than  being  herself  supported.  The 
novelty  and  excitement  of  her  situation  had  slightly  tinged 
her  cheek  with  the  most  delightful  and  changeful  blush 
imaginable.  My  fixed  and  eager  glance  met  hers — I  fancied 
that  she  blushed  yet  deeper  beneath  that  steadfast  impassioned 
gaze.  The  bridegroom,  forgetful  of  the  politeness  which, 
then  at  least,  should  have  been  extended  to  the  lady,  entered 
the  carriage  before  her.  I  saw  all  the  embarrassment  of  her 
situation,  and  eagerly  stepped  forward  to  assist  her.  In  truth, 
she  had  no  other  resource.  Half  confused — half  angered, 
perhaps — she  took  my  proft'ered  hand  in  preference  to  that 
of  a  liveried  lackey.  A  moment,  and  she  was  in  the  carriage. 
She  gracefully  bowed  her  thanks — the  vehicle  wliirled  off — I 
stood  alone,  on  the  steps  of  St.  George's  Church,  gazing 
after  it. 

My  self-possession  immediately  returned.  I  bounded  off 
at  my  utmost  speed.  The  people  whom  I  passed  must  have 
thought  me  mad.  I  contrived  to  keep  the  carriage  in  view, 
though  I  became  so  exhausted  by  my  long  and  rapid  race, 
that  I  Avas  more  than  once  on  the  point  of  abandoning  the 
pursuit.  Still  I  mechanically  toiled  on — ray  heart  heaving 
as  if  it  were  about  to  break ;  my  temples  throbbing  as  if  the 
blood  would  burst  from  the  swelled  arteries;  my  knees 
bending  beneath  me.  I  was  forced  to  lean  against  a  lamp- 
post for  support,  utterly  exhausted,  when — the  carriage 
stopped. 

I  stood  in  Harley  street.  My  fatigue  was  at  once  forgotten. 
Again  I  rushed  forward — just  in  time  to  hand  the  bride  from 
the  carriage.  The  servants  had  no  time  to  interfere ;  perhaps 
they  thought  I  was  one  of  her  friends.     She  grew  pale  and 


62  TRESSILIAN. 

red  by  turns.  She  did  not  refuse  my  hand,  but  ber  own 
trembled  within  it.  She  might  not  have  wondered  at  my 
interference  at  the  church-door,  for  that  might  have  been 
only  a  simple  act  of  courtesy ;  but  how  must  she  have  been 
surprised  to  see  me  before  her,  at  the  end  of  ber  route. 

All  this  was  embarrassing — but  there  was  no  time  for 
explanation,  could  I  have  given  it.  Her  hand  was  ungloved ; 
the  glove  fell  to  the  ground.  I  raised  it  up,  and  ventured  to 
press  to  my  lips  the  fair  hand  I  held.  She  looked  into  my 
face  with  a  sort  of  smiling  surprise  as,  with  the  ?iir  of  a 
princess,  she  withdrew  that  band.  I  turned  aside.  The  aged 
bridegroom  was  on  the  threshold  of  his  door  by  this  time. 
The  carriage  rolled  away.  The  white  train  of  the  bride 
swept  within  the  hall.  I  saw  her  fair  face  turned  towards 
me.  I  bowed.  My  salute  was  gracefully  but  hesitatingly 
acknowledged.  The  door  closed,  and  I  stood  in  Harley 
street,  pressing  the  glove  to  my  lips — feeling  more  alone  than 
I  had  ever  felt  in  my  life,  with  a  world  of  regrets  that,  until 
it  was  too  late,  I  had  not  seen  and  known  that  bright 
creature  who  had  glanced  across  my  path  for  that  brief  time, 

"  Too  brief  to  meet,  but  never  to  forget." 

As  I  went  home,  I  communed  with  my  heart.  The  still, 
small  voice  spoke,  and  was  neither  unheard  nor  unheeded. 
I  took  a  wiser  resolution  than  young  blood  and  heated  imagi- 
nation might  have  been  expected  to  form.  I  perceived  that 
the  lady  and  myself  could  have  no  interest  in  each  other ; 
she  was  a  wife  now,  and  I  but  a  struggling  stranger.  How- 
ever unequally  she  was  matched,  still  she  was  mated ;  nor 
could  I  forget  the  great  gulf  thus  placed  between  us.  So  I 
turned  to  my  solitary  home — to  be  more  solitary  in  future,  by 
the  contrast  which  Fancy  would  create — and  dreamed  away 


tressilian's    story.  63 

the  hours  in  a  reverie,  sad,  and  soul-subduing.  The  next 
day,  I  arose  a  wiser  man,  and  endeavoured  to  think  more  of 
what  I  had  to  do,  and  less  of  the  bright  vision,  who,  to  me, 
as  Wordsworth  says  of  his  wife,  was — 

"  A  sudden  apparition  sent, 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament." 

I  have  said  that  I  had  obtained  a  literary  engagement.  It 
was  peculiarly  suited  to  my  taste ;  for,  even  when  a  careless 
schoolboy,  reading  all  books,  except  those  which  I  should 
have  studied,  I  had  delighted  to  learn  history  through 
biography ;  to  know  public  actions,  and  their  motives,  from 
the  lives  of  the  actors.  The  work  on  which  I  was  engaged 
was  biographical ;  and  I  wrote  it,  therefore,  with  a  thorough 
liking  for  the  subject.  It  gave  me  subsistence,  and  it  brought 
me  reputation.  True,  my  gains  were  not  very  great;  but 
my  wants  were  few,  and  my  habits  were  not  expensive.  I 
had  not  much  fame,  but  still  it  was  fame.  I  got  the  credit 
for  having  done  my  work  well,  and  this  was  the  stepping- 
stone  to  distinction.  If  not  of  the  highest  quality,  yet  it  was 
of  some  value.  I  knew  that  he  who  hopes  to  look  down 
from  the  mountain's  brow,  must  first  conquer  the  difficulties 
of  the  ascent;  and  I  was  content  to  toil  my  way  onward 
as  best  I  could,  even  though  my  stages  of  advance  were  but 
small. 

Although  my  thoughts  sometimes  reverted  to  the  fair  bride 
of  Harley  street,  she  did  not  continue  to  engross  my  atten- 
tion half  so  much  as  might  have  been  expected  from  my 
sanguine  temperament.  I  can  account  for  this  by  stating, 
that,  for  twelve  or  fourteen  months  succeeding  the  adventure 
of  the  bridal,  I  was  so  much  engaged  in  authorship,  that  I 
really  had  not  time  to  think  of  love.  Now  and  then,  I  gazed 
upon  the  white  glove  with  mingled  feelings.     Perhaps,  too, 


64  TRESSILIAN. 

if  I  saw  a  graceful  figure  in  the  street  or  at  the  theatre, 
I  may  have  looked,  with  more  than  common  anxiety,  to  see 
whether  the  face  was  that  of  my  unknown  charmer ;  but  to 
prove  to  you  how  very  little,  beyond  the  first  impression,  my 
heart  was  interested,  I  never  went  into  Harley  street.  You 
smile  ?  You  think  that  this  avoidance  proves  I  was  not  so 
very  indifferent,  or  so  very  strong  and  sure  in  my  indifference, 
as  I  would  have  persuaded  myself  I  was?  You  may  be 
right. 

During  all  this  time,  I  had  scarcely  heard  any  thing  of 
those  members  of  my  father's  family  who  had  treated  me 
with  so  much  coldness  and  indifference.  Once  or  twice,  my 
uncle  wrote  to  me  on  business ;  and  I  was  not  sorry  to  have 
the  opportunity  in  my  reply,  of  paying  off"  pride  with  pride. 
It  appeared  that  three  of  my  cousins,  ambitious  of  the 
doubtful  distinction  of  beinof  esteemed  "  fast  men "  at  the 
University,  had  drunk  themselves  into  fever,  and  had  died 
soon  after,  from  the  consequences  of  their  hard  living.  The 
Baronet  was  anxious  to  sell  part  of  his  estates ;  but  as  I 
stood  collaterally  in  the  line  of  succession,  my  consent  was 
necessary,  according  to  family  settlements,  "merely  as  a 
matter  of  fonn  "  (as  I  was  told),  previous  to  his  proceeding 
to  "  dock  the  entail."  I  never  wrote  any  letter  with  more 
satisfaction  than  that  in  which,  respectfully  but  firmly,  I 
declined  all  interference  with  the  affairs  of  a  family  which 
had  all  but  disowned  my  father,  and  had  deserted  myself.  I 
was  resolved  to  show  them  that,  in  spirit  at  least,  I  was  a 
true  Tressilian.  I  subsequently  was  informed  that  my  haughty 
uncle  rather  respected  me  for  my  unbending  disposition.  As 
it  turned  out,  he  had  ample  cause  to  rejoice  over  it.  He 
wanted  the  money  to  make  a  large  investment  in  the  purchase 
of  mining  property,  at  the  suggestion  of  some  Dousterswivel 
of  the  day,  and  my  refusal  to  join  him  in  executing  the 


tressilian's    stort.  65 

necessary  instruments  saved  him  from  ruin.  The  party  who 
was  induced  to  enter  into  the  speculation,  lost  nearly  half  a 
million  by  it,  and  eventually  died  in  a  prison.  I  some- 
times had  a  letter  from  mv  cousin  Emma,  alwavs  full  of 
affectionate  interest  in  my  well-doing.  She  was  the  sole  link 
to  bind  me  to  my  house. 

One  of  the  dreams  of  my  early  ambition  had  been  to  write 
a  successful  drama.  At  that  time,  it  was  considered  rather 
fashionable  to  liave  a  dramatic  taste.  But  Kean,  who  had 
carried  the  public  along  with  him  on  his  first  appearance  in 
London,  some  years  before,  was  still  in  the  ascendant,  when- 
ever it  pleased  his  caprice  to  take  the  trouble  of  acting  earn- 
estly. There  was  truth  in  what  he  told  his  wife,  when  she 
asked  him  how  Lord  Essex  liked  his  Sir  Giles  Overreach, 
"The  pit  rose  at  me."  Never  had  triumph  been  more  complete. 
The  energy  of  the  man — the  passion — the  truth — bore  all 
before  him.  The  secret  of  his  success  was  tersely  developed 
in  the  brief  criticism  of  John  Kemble, — "  He  is  at  all  times 
terribly  in  earnest" — a  frank  tribute,  and  a  generous 
one,  from  one  great  actor  to  another.  The  coldnesB  of  an 
English  audience  had  vanished,  for  the  public  became  enthu- 
siastic when  he  played.  Among  them,  I  could  not  resist 
the  power  of  the  witchery. 

I  was  literally  spell-bound  by  Edmund  Kean's  powerful 
delineations.  You  forgot,  as  you  bowed  before  the  whirlwind 
of  passion  which  he  raised,  that  his  voice  was  defective,  his 
action  abrupt,  and  his  stature  insignificant.  You  could  only 
note,  that  there,  you  saw  an  actor  setting  at  defiance  and 
deposing  the  hereditary  "points"  in  each  character,  and 
substituting  Nature's  well-regulated  impulses  for  the  conven- 
tionalities of  what  was  called  the  Classical  Drama.  You  felt 
that,  at  length,  this  was  to  realize  what  you  had  imagined  as 
the  perfection  of  acting ;  other  great  performers  might  have 


66  TRESSIHAN. 

been  scholastic  and  disciplined,  this  one  was  intellectual  and 
impulsive.  You  forgot  at  times,  that  the  scene  was  a  mimic 
one,  the  circumstances  unreal,  and  that  the  actor  was  uttering 
words  written  by  another  man,  and  merely  committed  to  his 
memory.  You  saw  that  he  felt  every  word  he  spoke.  Ilis 
singularly  expressive  and  well-cut  Italian  countenance  illus- 
trated the  sentiments  to  which  he  was  to  give  voice ;  and 
then,  his  brillant  eyes, — they  spoke  as  much  as  his  lips  did. 
Kean  did  not  seem  as  if  he  were  simulating  a  character,  but 
as  if  he  were  the  person  he  represented.  Night  after  night,  I 
followed  with  the  public  in  the  wake  of  his  triumph,  rejoiced 
to  find  that  Nature  and  Truth  were  recognized  upon  the 
English  stage,  in  the  highest  walk  of  the  drama. 

Suddenly  came  the  thought — how  brilliant  would  success 
be  if  partaken  with  him  and  by  his  means.  Why  should  not 
/  write  a  play,  in  which  he  could  perform  ?  Mine  to  make 
the  creation — his  acting  to  breathe  into  it  the  vitality  of 
existence ! 

This  thought  I  siezed  upon  as  a  miser  would  grasp  a  trea- 
sure. IBoon  I  commenced  my  task.  I  meditated  much  on 
the  subject,  and  how  it  should  be  treated.  The  main  plot 
was  fully  developed  in  ray  mind  before  I  put  pen  to  paper. 
In  two  months  I  had  completed  the  drama.  Then  followed  a 
pause  of  a  few  weeks,  after  which,  the  enthusiasm  of  composi- 
tion having  cooled  down,  I  could  calmly  play  the  critic  on 
what  I  had  written,  and  prune  the  exuberance  of  the  language, 
and  strengthen,  by  compression,  the  consistency  of  the  plot. 
Lastly,  came  the  difficulty,  not  undreamt  of  until  that  moment, 
but  too  much  disregarded, — how  to  get  it  acted. 

I  had  the  boldness  to  do  what  the  emergency  required — 
■what,  perhaps  the  emergency  alone  could  have  justified.  I 
waited  upon  Kean,  with  my  play  in  my  hand,  and  told  him 
how  his  acting  had  enforced  me  to  write.     lie  encouraged 


tressilian's    story.  67 

my  hopes,  and  soothed  my  doubts.  He  carefully  read  my 
play,  and,  approving  generally  of  it,  suggested  some  alterations, 
to  give  greater  efi'ect  to  the  acting.  They  were  suggested 
by  his  stage  experience,  and  knowledge  of  what  is  called 
situation.  I  saw  that  he  was  right,  and  made  them.  He 
approved,  and  even  took  upon  himself  to  bring  my  play  before 
the  authorities  of  Drury-Lane  Theatre — that  establishment 
whose  fortunes  he  had  once  redeemed.  He  did  moi'e ;  he 
introduced  me  to  some  of  his  most  influential  patrons  and 
friends.  I  have  heard  that  he  was  capricious  in  his  manner 
and  regard — to  me  he  was  ever  most  kind  and  considerate. 
"With  all  his  faults,  what  a  noble  heart  did  that  wondrous 
man  possess ! 

Kean  had  not  miscalculated  his  influence  at  the  theatre. 
My  play  was  accepted  and  put  in  rehearsal,  Kean  himself 
consenting  to  take  the  leading  part;  which  indeed,  I  had 
written  for  him.  As,  avoiding  the  errror  of  allowing  one 
actor  to  monopolize  all  the  effect,  I  had  diffused  the  interest 
throughout  the  play,  the  others  who  were  to  perform  in  it  were 
well  satisfied  with  their  respective  parts,  and  assured  me,  each 
and  all,  that  they  would  use  their  best  exertions  to  effect  my 
success.  I  had  faith  in  the  promise,  as  it  involved  their  own 
success  also. 

The  play  was  produced.  As  I  sat  in  the  pit,  alone  in 
that  great  crowd,  tremblingly  anxious  for  its  fate,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  bride  of  Harley  street,  in  a  private  box  immedi- 
ately opposite  me  !  There  she  sate,  more  beautiful  than  ever. 
A  mourning  dress  was  in  admirable  contrast  and  deep  relief 
with  the  purity  of  her  complexion.  I  had  never  paid  much 
attention  to  the  minutiae  of  female  attire,  and  never  until 
now  had  I  occasion  to  regret  the  ignorance  which  prevented 
my  knowing  whether  I  saw  a  widow's  weeds.  But  no!  those 
could  not  be  the  proverbially  unbecoming  gaiments  of  widow- 
hood. 


68  TRESSILIAN. 

The  play  went  on  beyond  my  hopes,  but  now  I  little  heeded 
how  it  proceeded.  My  heart — my  hopes  had  all  been  intent 
on  its  success;  now  the  whole  was  changed,  like  the  shifting 
slide  in  a  magic  lantern — and  my  tragedy,  the  world  itself, 
was  nothing  to  me.  My  world  sat  before  me  lovelier  than 
ever  my  dreams  had  imaged  her. 

At  last  the  ordeal  was  past.  The  play  was  over,  and 
announced  for  repetition  amid  shouts  of  apjilause ;  and  few 
would  have  suspected  that  the  abstracted,  anxious  being  in 
the  pit  was  the  successful  author.  Some  of  my  friends  recog- 
nised me,  made  way  to  me,  thronged  round  me,  shook  hands 
with  me,  and  warmly  offered  me  their  congratulations.  A 
whisper  ran  through  the  house — "The  author."  Presently 
the  whisper  found  a  voice.  I  felt,  as  painfully  as  j'jroudly, 
that  I  was  the  object  of  general  interest.  I  was  triumphant. 
Little  more  than  two-and-twenty,  I  had  gained  a  success  such 
as,  at  that  immature  ao-e  few  had  even  striven  for.  I  had 
produced,  they  said,  that  novelty — a  truly  original  drama; 
not  a  weak  dilution  "  adapted  from  the  French,"  but  a  play 
which  was  thoroughly  English  in  sentiment  and  manner.  All 
eyes  weie  upon  me,  all  voices  swelling  to  do  me  honor — the 
eyes  I  wished  to  meet,  the  voice  I  longed  to  hear,  these  alone 
were  wanting.  At  length,  the  beautiful  Unknown  joined  in 
the  general  interest :  the  murmur  had  reached  her  also.  She 
had  warmly  applauded  the  play  in  its  progress;  more  than 
once,  I  saw  that  she  had  given  it  that  sincerest  of  all  tributes, 
her  tears.  Now  she  turned  to  look  upon  the  successful 
autlior ;  but  her  eyes  coldly  met  mine,  without  any  recogni- 
tion, and  she  rose  to  leave  the  theatre. 

I  also  lost  no  time  in  quitting  my  place.  So  intent  was  I 
in  the  pursuit,  that  I  did  not  heed,  far  less  acknowledge,  the 
plaudits  which  greeted  me  as  I  left  the  scene  of  my  triumph. 
So  much  the  better;  it  was  attributed  to  my  modesty!  In 
fact,  I  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  applause. 


tressilian's    stort.  G9 

I  was  just  in  time.  The  lady's  carriage  was  at  tlie  dr>or. 
There  was  a  dreadful  crush,  as  there  always  was,  at  that  time, 
when  Ivean  performed.  Coachman  strove  with  coachman  in 
most  execrational  and  bitter'  emulation ;  ladies  were  fright- 
ened, gentlemen  indignant.  The  lady  was  stepping  into  her 
carriage,  when  I  saw  the  horses  rushing  on  the  pavement.  I 
dashed  forward  to  aid.  I  snatched  her  from  her  perilous 
position  with  one  hand,  while,  with  the  other,  I  succeeded  in 
restraining  the  nearest  horse.  Others  came  to  give  assist- 
ance, and  I  could  then  devote  my  whole  attention  to  the 
fi'ightened  lady,  whom  I  placed  in  her  carriage.  I  also  went 
in :  the  door  was  closed ;  and  the  vehicle  rapidly  disengaged 
from  the  tumultuous  crowd,  and  homeward  bound. 

Meanwhile,  my  fair  charge  was  scarcely  conscious  of  what 
had  happened.  The  rapid  motion  of  the  carriage  somewhat 
restored  her.  "  Where  am  I  ?"  she  asked,  as  she  recovered 
consciousness.  My  reply  satisfied  her ;  a  few  broken  words 
of  explanation  formed  our  conversation'.  I  was  too  much 
excited  by  past  recollections  and  the  conflict  of  present 
thoughts ;  she,  independent  of  her  recent  alarm,  had  sufficient 
excuse  for  silence.  She  might  have  felt  disinclined  to  con- 
verse with  a  stranger,  or  probably  she  then  was  only  con- 
scious that  somebody  had  rescued  her  from  danger,  and  was 
escorting  her  home. 

"We  soon  arrived  in  Harley  street.  We  stopped  at  the 
well-remembered  house.  I  saw  a  hatchment  over  the  door. 
I  perceived  that  the  servants  were  in  mourning.  This  gave 
some  confirmation  to  my  hopes — God  forgive  me!  —  that  my 
cliarmer  was  a  widow. 

I  handed  her  out  of  the  carriage.  She  lingered  for 
a  moment  to  return  me  thanks,  and  politely  requested  to 
know  to  whom  she  was  indebted  for  what  she  was  pleased  to 
term  my  "very  particular  kindness."  I  did  not  half  relish 
the  cool  manner  in  which  the  inquiry  was  made — as  if  it 


10 


TUESSILIAN, 


were  but  a  mere  matter  of  form.  Perhaps  I  was  a  little 
piqued  that  she  scarcely  deigned  to  look  at  me  while  asking 
the  question.  I  expected  that,  at  the  very  least,  she  might 
have  tui'ned  the  full  light  of  her  countenance  upon  the  man 
who  had  saved  her  life,  probably  at  the  risk  of  his  own :  but 
there  she  stood,  her  face  only  half  turned  towards  me,  and 
her  bright  eyes  most  provokingly  fixed,  not  upon  mine.  You 
smile  at  this  ?  I  can  smile  now,  to  think  how  such  a  trifle 
could  have  annoyed  me  then.  But  such  things,  in  the  days 
of  youth,  will  cloud  the  sunshine  of  the  heart,  and  pale  the 
cheek,  and  dim  the  eye,  and  dull  the  spirit ;  for  the  joys  and 
griefe  of  life  are  composed  of  trifles — even  as  the  Andes  are 
made  up  of  atoms. 

In  reply  to  the  lady's  inquiry,  I  handed  her  my  card,  at 
the  same  time  pronouncing  my  name.  Nothing  could  be 
more  rapid  than  the  change  caused  by  the  utterance  of  the 
word  "  Tressilian."  I  doubt  whether  the  "  Open,  Sesame  !" 
of  Ali  Baba  had  a  more  sudden  or  powerful  effect.  The 
moment  the  word  had  passed  my  lips,  she  turned  round, 
eagerly  and  earnestly  fixing  upon  me  an  intense  and  search- 
ing glance,  as  if  she  would  have  read  every  secret  of  my 
heart.  I  have  never  pretended  to  be  a  very  bashful  man,  but 
I  quailed  beneath  the  intensity  of  that  look.  To  make 
matters  worse,  it  continued  long.  I  began  to  feel  as  much 
annoyed  by  her  excess  of  attention,  as  I  had  pre\nously  been 
by  her  neglect  of  it.  Even  a  man  of  the  world  might  have 
been  embarrassed — I  was  but  a  man  of  letters,  and  beings  of 
my  order  are  sometimes  as  little  self-possessed  as  possible. 

The  lady  found  a  voice  at  last,  but  not  until  she  had  read 
my  features  as  you  would  read  a  book.  If  my  identity  were 
to  be  proved,  she  had  qualified  herself  for  a  witness  most 
completely. 

"  Tressilian  ?"  she  repeated.  "  It  is  very  strange."  Then, 
after  another  pause — "  may  I  ask  whether  we  have  met  before." 


TEESSILIANS      STORY.  71 

I  answered  that  we  had. 

"  Will  Mr.  Tressiliau  be  so  obliging  as  to  mention  where 
and  when  ?" 

"  About  two  years  ago,  at  St.  George's  Church." 

"  Ah  ?"  she  said,  "  I  remember  it  now.  I  really  was  very 
stupid  not  to  have  instantly  recognized  the  gentleman,  to 
whose  attentions  on  my  wedding-day  I  was  so  much  and  so 
unexpectedly  indebted.  I  was  a  little  annoyed  by  them,  too, 
at  the  time."  These  last  words  were  spoken  in  rather  a 
mirthful  manner. 

She  went  on  : — "  You  are  about  asking  my  permission  to 
call  to-morrow,  and  inquire  how  I  have  got  over  to-night's 
alarm.  I  certainly  cannot  refuse  to  see  the  gentleman  who 
Las  obliged  me  thrice." 

I  made  some  unintelligible  reply.  She  cut  short  my 
compliments — "  One  word  more :  your  name  is  Tressiliau  ?" — 
I  bowed  assent.  « 

"  Julian  Tressilian  ?" — I  was  surprised  at  her  knowledge  of 
my  Christian  name,  as  my  look  might  have  shown  her. 

"  The  nephew,  I  believe,  of  Sir  Edgar  Tressilian,  of  Corn- 
wall ?" — Again  I  silently  assented. 

"  Then,  Sir,  though  I  have  received  few  male  visitors  sinco 
my  husband's  death,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  again ;  you 
will  remember  the  house  V 

The  prettiest  possible  smile  played  upon  her  lips  as  she  thus 
invited  me  to  call  upon  her.  Cheerfully  enough  I  promised 
to  pay  the  visit,  and  departed  with  my  mind  full  of  thoughts, 
the  most  varied  and  contending. 

It  was  one  consolation  to  learn  that  mv  now  known  Un- 
known  was  not  shackled  by  the  bond  matrimonial ;  another, 
that  she  bad  forgiven,  but  not  forgotten,  my  strange  conduct 
on  her  wedding-day ;  a  third,  that  she  had  been  not  only 
courteous,  but  apparently  desirous  to  see  me  again.     I  was 


72  TRESSILIAN. 

puzzled  with  conjectures  as  to  the  means  by  -which  she  could 
have  obtained  such  an  accurate  knowledge  of  my  family 
connexions.  So  intent  was  my  mind  on  these  speculations, 
that  I  almost  forgot  my  success  at  the  theatre.  By  degrees, 
my  thoughts  flowed  in  a  calmer  current,  and  a  sound,  dream- 
less sleep  closed  my  contemplations  on  that  eventful  evening. 
You  will  fancy  this  a  "  lame  and  impotent  conclusion ;"  but 
as  I  am  telling  you  what  occurred,  and  not  inventing  a  ro- 
mance, I  cannot  alter  it. 

1  awoke  early  in  the  morning,  and  very  anxiously  longed 
for  the  hours  to  run  on  more  quickly.  Never  had  they 
appeared  so  leaden-footed  as  then.  Shall  I  confess  it?  my 
most  anxious  thought  was  to  see — the  widow  of  Harley  street? 
No ;  to  have  a  glance  through  the  newspapers.  You  can- 
not wonder  at  my  impatience.  Every  one,  whatever  his  occu- 
pation, is  anxious  to  see  what  the  newspapers  say  of  him. 
As  Hamlet  said  of  the  players,  "  They  are  the  abstracts,  and 
brief  chronicles  of  the  time ;  after  your  death  you  were  better 
have  a  bad  epitaph  than  their  ill  report  while  you  live."  My 
drama  had  been  very  successful  on  the  stage ;  but  a  great 
deal,  as  regarded  the  mind  of  the  public,  depended  on  what 
the  critics  of  the  Press  mij^ht  sav  of  it. 

All  of  them  seemed  in  a  friendly  conspiracy  to  be  kind  to 
me.  Of  Kean's  acting  they  spoke  enthusiastically.  A  light 
heart  was  mine ;  I  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  happiest  men  in 
London  on  that  morning. 

As  the  day  rolled  on,  visitor  after  visitor  called  upon  me. 
Never  before  had  my  humble  apartments  received  such 
distinguished  visitors.  To  have  written  a  successTul  play 
was  a  great  thing  in  those  days;  therefore,  I  had  quite  a 
lev6e  of  the  gifted  and  distinguished.  I  might  gratity  my 
vanity  by  naming  some  of  them,  and  repeating  what  they  said; 
but  I  have  outlived  that  feeling,  and  must  hasten  my  story  to 


tressilian's    story.  "73 

a  conclusion.  Among  my  visitors  was  Kean,  with  his  heart 
upon  his  lips,  loud  in  my  praise,  and  delighted  with  his  own 
success.  Never  before  had  I  experienced  the  deep,  deep 
pleasure  of  bearing  my  own  praises  from  the  lips  of  those 
whose  favourable  opinion  was  distinction.  I  was  proudly 
conscious  of  this  great  delight,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  done  some- 
thing to  deserve  it. 

At  last — and  I  thought  they  never  would  have  departed — 
my  friends  went  away.  Hurrying  to  pay  my  promised  visit, 
I  was  in  Harley  street  in  a  very  short  time.  I  asked,  "  Is 
Mrs.  Stanley  at  home  ?"  I  was  told  "  Yes ;"  and  that  she 
had  waited  within  all  the  morning. 

I  was  ushered  into  a  noble,  and  magnificently  furnished 
room.  At  the  time,  I  had  eyes  for  neither  its  size,  nor  its 
splendid  adornments ;  but  I  saw  one,  the  loveliest,  greeting 
me  with  a  gentle  and  winning  smile.  Two  years  had  matured 
her  into  a  very  charming  woman ;  and,  she  seemed  to  me 
beautiful  as  the  glad  image  of  a  poet's  thought. 

My  reception  was  courteous  and  even  kind.  In  reply  to 
some  playful  badinage  as  to  my  having  fashionably  delayed 
my  visit  until  so  late  an  hour,  I  frankly  told  her  what  had 
detained  me. 

"  What !"  she  exclaimed,  "  the  great  dramatist  condescends 
to  bestow  a  few  minutes  upon  such  insignificance  as  mine ! 
Here  is  the  Morning  Post,  with  a  full  column  of  praise 
and  extracts,  and  a  mysterious  announcement  that  the  un- 
named author  of  this  new  and  successful  play  is  nephew  of  a 
Baronet  of  ancient  family  in  the  south-west  of  England. 
Good  Master  Tressilian,  your  modesty  will  run  a  fair  chance 
of  being  ruined." 

Once  entered  into  conversation,  I  did  not  allow  it  to  flag. 
Nor  did  we,  even  thus  early,  lack  those  mutual  confidences 
which  are  so  delightful  when  the  parties  are  young,  and  of 

4 


74  TRESSILIAN. 

different  sexes.  I  confessed  how  much  I  had  been  struck 
•with  her  on  her  bridal  day.  She  seemed  to  encourage  my 
talking  of  myself.  Believe  me  that  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
positions  in  which  you  can  place  a  young  man,  is  to  allow 
him  to  speak  of  himself  to  a  charming  woman,  who  pays  him 
the  perilous  compliment  of  being  interested,  or  seeming  to  be, 
in  what  he  says : — the  seeming  is  scarcely  distinguishable 
from  the  reality  in  such  cases,  and  often  merges  into  it. 
That  day  fixed  my  fate. 

There  was  every  excuse  for  it — if  love  ever  can  require 
excuse.  The  lady  was  not  only  beautiful  but  accomplished ; 
more  so,  perhaps,  than  is  usual  at  her  age,  for  she  was  not  yet 
twenty.  But  there  was  deep  and  solid  good  sense,  like  a 
rocky  foundation,  beneath  the  Corinthian  embellishments  of 
her  mind.  Added  to  this,  there  was  strong  feeling,  a 
dash  of  enthusiasm,  and  that  most  dangerous  weapon  which 
can  be  possessed  by  a  lovely,  witty,  wilful  woman — a  keen 
perception  of  the  ridiculous.  This  she  possessed  rather  than 
wielded — the  jewelled  scimitar  flashed  rather  than  smote.  In 
contemplative  repose,  her  face  would  have  reminded  you  of 
the  beautiful  description  of  one  of  our  poets, 

" Thought  sits  upon  lier  happy  brow — like  light! 

The  pure  young  tlioughta  that  have  no  taint  of  sin  I 
Making  the  mortal  beauty  yet  more  bright, 
By  the  immortal  beauty  from  within." 

With  so  many  natural  and  acquired  advantages,  I  doubt 
to  this  hour,  which  was  most  to  be  admired,  her  beauty  or 
her  talents. 

The  interest  which  she  took,  or  seemed  to  take,  in  what- 
ever concerned  me,  was  very  flattering.  My  visit  lasted  two 
hours.  Time  was  not  leaden-footed  there,  and  in  that  inter- 
val she  had  become  acquainted  with  rather  more  of  my 


tressilian's    stort.  75 

adventures,  few  jis  they  had  been,  than,  a  week  before,  I  could 
have  deemed  it  possible  I  should  have  communicated  to  any 
one.  But  when  the  auditor  is  fair  and  winning,  the  heart 
will  speak  freely. 

There  was  this  satisfaction — she  was  nearly  as  communi- 
cative as  myself.  Iler  father  had  held  a  high  situation  at 
Madras,  in  the  Civil  service  of  the  East  India  Company.  With 
the  usual  profusion  of  persons  accustomed  to  Oriental  habits 
of  luxury,  but  without  the  prudence  which  many  of  them 
exercise,  he  had  contrived  to  spend  every  sixpence  of  his 
income ;  so  that,  when  he  died,  his  daughter  Mariana  was 
almost  destitute.  Mr.  Stanley,  who  had  been  his  schoolfellow 
in  youth,  and  his  friend  through  life,  took  charge  of  the 
orphan,  then  a  mere  child ;  sent  her  to  England  to  be  edu- 
cated ;  and  on  his  return  from  India,  was  so  much  struck 
with  the  naivete  of  her  manners  and  the  freshness  of  her 
beauty,  that,  instead  of  adopting  her  as  his  daughter,  which 
was  his  first  intention,  he  oftered  her  his  hand  and  fortune. 
She  was  without  another  friend  in  the  world,  was  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  sacrifice  she  was  makinjr,  and  therefore  had 
little  hesitation  in  promising  to  espouse  her  father's  friend. 
It  was  a  new  edition  of  "  January  and  May,"  as  far  as  years 
were  concerned :  for  she  was  not  seventeen,  and  he  was  about 
seventy.  Shortly  after  she  had  made  this  promise,  Mr 
Stanley's  health  broke  up,  from  the  effects  of  climate  and  its 
change,  and  during  several  months  of  acute  suffering,  she 
was  his  constant  attendant,  nursing  him  with  the  care  and 
kindness  of  maturer  years.  On  his  partial  recovery,  he 
informed  her  that,  in  order  to  give  her  an  indisputable  right 
to  succeed  to  his  fortune,  he  still  hoped  she  would  become 
his  wife — intimating  that,  as  he  could  not  desire  her  to  sacri- 
fice her  youth  to  his  infirmities,  they  should  still  preserve 
their  relative  positions  of  parent  and  child  by  adoption.     Ou 


16  TRESSILIAN. 

such  an  understanding,  their  union  took  place.  Its  celebra- 
tion, as  I  had  seen,  was  private,  but  she  was  a  wife  only  in 
name.  For  about  a  year,  she  continued  to  tend  the  old  man 
— ever  at  his  side,  with  the  affection  and  kindness  of  a  dear 
child.  His  death  left  her  in  affluence — the  bulk  of  his  for- 
tune, amounting  to  some  thousands  a  year,  becoming  her  own 
without  any  restriction.  She  had  continued  to  reside  in  the 
house  which  Mr.  Stanley  had  purchased  on  his  return  from 
India.  A  female  relative,  to  whom  such  a  home  was  an 
object,  lived  with  her  as  companion. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  what  I  heard,  part  of  it  not 
until  long  after — a  story  which  rather  damped  my  own 
hopes.  If  I  despised  one  thing  more  than  another,  it  was 
that  wretched  character,  a  fortune-hunter.  I  own  that,  if  I 
had  been  smitten  before,  I  was  doubly  struck  now,  when  a 
few  hours'  conversation  had  revealed  the  rich  and  varied 
resources  of  Mrs.  Stanley's  mind.  But  here  was  a  sudden 
dash  to  my  hopes.  If  she  had  been  poor,  I  would  most 
gladly  have  been  the  friend  to  protect,  and  love,  and  cherish 
her  through  life.  If  she  had  been  poor,  I  would  have  coined 
my  heart  into  drachmas  for  her ;  I  would  have  felt  pride  in 
tasking  my  mind  to  support  her ; — but  here,  amid  wealth 
and  luxury,  with  all  the  friends  they  can  command,  she  was 
too  far  above  my  aim. 

You  who  know  any  thing  of  the  passion-springs  of 
the  heart,  of  the  passion-stirrings  of  the  heart,  of  the 
rapture  which  the  heart  feels  in  converse  with  one  whom 
it  loves — you  may  imagine  how  rapidly  flew  the  hours, 
"while  we  thus  conversed  together,  free  and  friendly  as 
if  we  had  known  each  other  for  years.  When  I  enquired 
how  the  accident  of  the  preceding  evening  had  affected  her, 
she  told  me  that,  until  that  morning,  she  had  not  been  fully 
conscious  of  the  extent  of  her  obligations  to  me — that,  yield- 


tressilian's    story.  "77 

ing  to  some  unaccountable  impulse,  she  had  gone  to  the 
theatre,  escorted  by  a  gentleman  who  was  a  near  relative  of 
her  late  husband — thut,  the  play  having  ended,  she  was  about 
departing,  when  having  reached  the  vestibule  of  the  theatre, 
her  escort  heedlessly  quitted  her  for  a  moment  to  hasten  her 
carriage,  which  drove  up  before  his  return — and  that  I  had 
arrived  just  in  time  to  be  of  service  to  her. 

We  parted.  I  promised  to  repeat  my  visit — how  cheerfully 
I  kept  my  word !  Day  after  day  the  chain  was  more  and 
more  inextricably  entwined  around  my  heart.  I  knew  it,  yet 
I  did  not  resist  it.  I  gladly  yielded  to  the  spell,  and  to  my 
great  joy,  the  lady  appeared  as  little  loth  as  myself  to  con- 
tinue the  acquaintance.  Sometimes,  indeed — when  out  of 
her  presence — I  determined  to  be  less  passive,  to  wean 
myself,  gradually  and  imperceptibly,  from  companionship  so 
charming  and  so  perilous.  But  the  resolution  was  sure  to  be 
broken.  There  was  this  new  poem  to  be  read,  that  song  to 
be  practised.  Byron  and  Moore  were  pouring  out  Poetry 
and  Melody,  with  vigour  and  sweetness  at  that  time :  to  say 
nothing  of  a  host  of  minor  singing-birds ;  now  I  had  promised 
to  accompany  her  to  see  her  portrait  in  the  Exhibition — it 
was  one  of  the  loveliest  that  Lawrence  had  ever  painted ; 
to-morrow  we  were  to  visit  Windsor — the  next  day  we  were 
to  join  a  party  which  had  arranged  to  go  to  see  the  paintings 
at  Dulvyich — in  short,  there  was  a  round  of  engagements, 
and,  as  these  were  fulfilled,  new  ones  were  proposed  and 
entered  into.  Thus,  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  keep  my 
resolution  of  allowing  the  acquaintance  to  grow  cold — 
perhaps  this  was  a  principal  reason  why  I  so  often  made  such 
a  resolution. 

I  had  a  friend — a  worldly-minded,  hard  man — who  had 
made  a  fortune  by  the  law,  as  respectably,  no  doubt,  as  it 
usually  is  ever  so  made.     He  was  a  shrewd,  calculating  man, 


V8  TRESSILIAX. 

wholly  free  from  any  idea  of  romance.  He  never  would 
neglect  his  own  interests,  nor  would  he  willingly  injure  the 
interests  of  others.  He  was  so  strictly  just,  that  I  did  not 
think  him  capable  of  also  being  generous.  I  had  rendered 
this  man  a  service ;  and,  whil^  thanking  me,  in  a  very  few 
words,  he  had  told  me  that  whenever  I  required  it,  his  advice 
was  at  my  command.  I  do  not  know  what  motive  impelled 
me  to  visit  him,  for  he  was  about  the  last  person  in  the  world 
of  whom  one  would  think  of  makinjx  a  confidant  in  an  affair 
of  the  heart.  Yet,  I  actually  did  go  to  him  with  that  view. 
It  may  have  been  because  I  was  confident  he  would  not 
laugh  at  me.  I  told  him  what  I  felt,  and  feared,  and  hoped. 
He  heard  me  with  attention.  "  It  strikes  me,"  said  he,  "  that 
this  lady  and  her  fortune  would  be  a  desirable  speculation. 
It  is  as  evident  that  she  has  a  fancy  for  you,  as  that  you  are 
anxious  to  marry  her.  I  see  that  you  would  marry  her  if  she 
were  friendless  and  fortuneless,  and  I  cannot  think  that  the 
accident  of  her  being  neither  should  stand  between  you  and 
your  desire." 

All  attempts  to  argue  against  his  sophistry  were  put  down 
with — "  If  you  had  fortune,  you  would  share  it  with  her ;  it 
happens  that  she  has  it,  so  the  case  is  exactly  the  same, 
mutatis  mutandis.  You  cannot  do  better  than  seriously  pay 
court  to  this  Mrs.  Stanley,  and  marry  her  as  soon  as  you  can. 
You  will  want  money,  perhaps?  Here  is  a  draft  for  a 
hundred  pounds  :  draw  on  me  for  any  further  sums,  within 
reason,  which  you  may  require  for  this  purpose,  and  repay 
me  when  you  have  the  means.  Not  a  word  more.  You 
once  did  me  a  service,  more  essential  than  you  imagine,  and 
you  must  allow  me  to  acknowledge  it  just  as  I  think 
proper.  I  do  not  risk  my  money — it  is  written,  as  the  Turks 
Bay,  that  you  will  repay  it  in  the  manner  I  point  out." 

He  literally  pushed  me  out  of  his  oflSce.     I  was  weak 


tressilian's    story.  19 

enoufi^h — foolisli  enough — -worklly  enough,  to  suffer  my  better 
feeHngs  to  be  subverted  by  wliat  that  old  lawyer  said.  I 
reasoned  myself  into  the  belief  that  he  was  right — nay,  I 
fear  that  I  went  farther,  and  made  calculations  of  the  advan- 
tages which  a  wealthy  wife  might  aflbrd  to  a  person  like 
myself.  I  beheved  that,  possessed  of  a  fortune,  it  would  not 
be  very  difficult  to  open  for  myself  a  new  and  brilliant  career. 
I  had  the  vanity  to  believe  that  I  was  well  qualified  to  strive 
for  and  gain  distinction  in  public  life.  I  already  contemplated, 
as  part  of  the  fruits  of  a  prosperous  marriage,  not  only  a  seat 
in  Parliament,  but  rapid  success  in  the  new  and  ambitious 
pursuits  of  a  politician.  In  short,  I  brought  myself  to  think 
that  my  old  friend,  though  he  had  put  the  matter  in  a  very 
worldly  point  of  view,  was  right  in  the  main ;  and  I  even 
found  myself  wondering,  at  last,  how  I  could  have  allowed 
false  delicacy  to  interfere  between  me  and  my  preferment.  I 
am  very  frank,  you  see :  but  the  plain  fact  is,  I  then  became 
anxious  to  marry,  not  only  because  I  loved,  but  because  the 
alliance  would  at  once  open  to  me  a  sphere  of  active  exertion 
from  which  might  spring  personal  distincition.  As  I  walked 
home,  I  found  myself  thinking  what  a  noble  library  I  should 
have,  what  liberal  patronage  I  should  exei'cise  towards  living 
artists,  what  elegant  hospitality  should  distinguish  my  estab- 
lishment— in  short,  how  many  gratifications  for  soul  and 
sense  might  be  purchased  out  of  six  thousand  a  year.  So, 
with  this  baser  alloy  mingling  through  my  feelings,  I  con- 
tinued my  visits  to  Harley  street,  and  saw  with  delight  tliat 
the  lady  was  not  heart-whole.     The  crisis  was  at  hand. 

One  morning,  as  I  was  quitting  my  residence,  three  letters 
reached  me,  whie-h  the  messenger — one  of  the  attendants  at  a 
coffee-house  which  I  frequented,  and  to  which  my  correspon- 
dents were  accustomed  to  address — told  me  had  been  lying 
there  for  a  day  or  two.    I  recognized  the  official  seal  of  one 


80  TRESSILIAN. 

and  found  that  it  was  from  tlie  treasurer  of  the  tlieatre,  inclos- 
ing a  draft  for  three  hundred  pounds  as  the  payment  for  my 
play.  I  should  have  told  you  that  its  success  was  real — the 
theatre  had  not  been  packed  with  friends,  on  the  first  night, 
to  applaud  it  whether  good  or  bad, — it  had  not  been  adver- 
tised with  the  stereotyped  puff  of  "splendid  success,"  to  be 
dismissed  after  three  or  four  nights'  performance,  into  the 
tomb  of  all  the  Capulets. 

This  remittance  gave  me  so  much  satisfaction,  that  eager 
to  carry  into  execution  an  idea  which  had  haunted  me  for 
some  time,  I  thrust  the  other  letters  into  my  pocket  without 
reading  them,  and  hurried  to  my  friend  the  lawyer.  I  seldom 
had  greater  satisfaction  than  when  I  repaid  him  his  loan. 
He  inquired  when  the  marriage  had  taken  place,  and  appeared 
surprised  and  vexed  when  I  told  him  that  matters  remained 
precisely  as  they  were  when  I  had  consulted  him.  It  was 
clear  that  he  considered  me  as  a  young  man  who  had  fool- 
ishly thrown  away  a  good  chance. 

I  proceeded  to  Harley  street.  Mrs.  Stanley's  manner  was 
agitated,  her  words  hurried.  An  indifferent  subject  of  conver- 
sation was  started,  but  neither  of  us  pursued  it.  Silence  fol- 
lowed. I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  as  we  sat  together  in 
that  silence,  my  hand  unconsciously  wandered,  for  the  first 
time,  gently  to  encircle  her  waist.  My  boldness  increased,  as 
I  saw  that  the  intrusion  was  scarcely  reproved.  Then,  grow- 
ing bolder,  my  lips  ventured  to  press  the  ripe  and  pouting 
beauty  of  hers.  Ere  she  could  utter  reproof,  I  was  on  my 
knee  by  her  side,  and  had  breathed  all  my  fear,  and  had  ven- 
tured to  whisper  some  of  my  hope. 

A  deep,  deep  sigh — a  long,  long  gaze — the  eyes  suddenly 
withdrawn — a  delicate  blush — a  slight  pressure  of  my  hand — 
a  silence  more  voiceful  than  the  richest  oratory — a  gush  of 
sudden  tears ;  these  made  her  answer  to  my  confession.     In 


tressilian's    story.  '81 

that  answer,  thus  indicated,  rather  than  expressed,  I  was 
fully  repaid  for  all  that  I  had  sufiered  from  the  fever  of  my 
fear. 

Then  followed  full  and  mutual  confidences,  each  to  each, 
of  all  that  had  disturbed  our  hearts.  In  the  midst  of  this,  I 
remembered  that  I  had  one  confession  yet  to  make — one  due 
no  less  to  my  own  honor  than  to  my  self-esteem.  I  made  it  thus 
— for  well  I  remember  every  word  uttered  at  that  memorable 
interview — "  My  Mariana,"  (it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
addressed  her  by  her  Christian  name,)  "  I  have  told  you 
much  ;  pardon  me  if  I  have  not  told  you  all.  You  have 
given  your  heart  to  mine,  in  the  trusty  hope  that  I  deserved 
you.  /  do  not.  I  am  the  veriest  cheat  that  ever  played 
with  a  trusting  heart.  I  have  dared,  not  forgetful  of  yourself, 
to  remember  your  fortune.  I  have  deceived  myself — you  I 
would  not.  I  do  not  ask  for  forgiveness — I  cannot  forgive 
myself — spurn  me — reject  me — despise  me.  I  will  submit 
to  it  all — I  deserve  it  all." 

She  appeared  astonished,  and  exclaimed — "Julian,  you  a 
fortune-hunter  ?  you  a  cheat  ?  You  unconsciously  exaggerate. 
You  must  not  deceive  me  now  1" 

I  told  her  all  that  passed  between  me  and  my  friend.  She 
listened  attentively ;  a  shade  of  abstracted  thought  seemed  to 
cloud  her  brow.  She  said,  "Julian,  I  would  even  hope  that 
all  you  say  were  true,  rather  than  believe  that,  ha\ang  seen 
my  weakness  in  confessing  that  you  are  not  indifierent  to  me, 
you  would  trifle  with  me  thus,  and  now.  Answer  me,  do 
you  "know  any  thing  new  concerning  yourself?  Do  you 
know  any  thing  new  about  Tressilian  Court  ?" 

I  answered  truly  that  I  knew  nothing. 

"  Nothing !     Have  not  you  got  letters  ?" 

I  recollected  the  letters  which  I  had  received  that  morning, 
but  had  not  opened,  and  I  produced  them. 

4* 


82  TRESSILIAX. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  mine  before  I  could  open  them. 
"If,"  said  she,  "the  contents  of  those  letters  should  make 
your  purpose  Avaver  for  a  moment,  (and  I  know  the  intelli- 
gence they  contain,  have  known  it  since  yesterday,  and 
thought  it  brouglit  you  to  my  feet  to-day,) — if  your  purpose 
"waver  for  a  moment,  remember,  I  release  you  from  your 
vows.  I,  too,  would  not  be  held  as  winning  a  heart,  and 
having  a  worldly  interest  in  view.     Read  your  letters  now." 

I  read  them.  One  was  from  the  solicitor  of  my  family, 
written  a  week  before,  informing  me  that  my  uncle  and  his 
two  sons  had  been  lost  at  sea,  on  their  voyage  from  Madeira, 
and  suggesting  the  propriety,  as  T  now  was  heir-presumptive 
to  the  title  and  estates,  of  my  visiting  Tressilian  Court,  where 
Sir  Edgar,  my  only  surviving  male  relative,  was  anxious  to 
receive  me,  and  would  have  written  with  his  own  hand,  but 
■was  afraid,  from  the  tone  of  our  previous  correspondence, 
that  his  letter  would  be  returned  or  ungraciously  received. 
The  other  letter  was  from  my  cousin  Emma,  giving  parti- 
culars of  the  shipwreck,  and  urging  me  to  lose  no  time  in 
visiting  Cornwall.  In  a  postscript — which  is  always  said  to 
contain  the  pith  of  a  young  lady's  letter — she  "hoped  that  my 
wooing  throve  ?" 

You  may  imagine  what  my  first  impulse  was.  I  felt  no 
inclination  to  release  Mariana  from  her  plighted  faith,  rejoic- 
ing that  I  thus  could  prove  that  it  was  indeed  herself  \i\iovii  I 
had  sought  to  win. 

In  the  conversation  which  ensued,  she  told  me  that  she  had 
been  a  school-fellow  of  my  cousin  Emma,  and  from  her  had 
learned  of  my  evil  fortunes;  that  when  I  first  told  her  my 
name,  her  interest  had  been  greatly  excited ;  that — but 
all  the  rest  was  only  a  repetition  of  what  her  looks  and 
blushes  had  confessed  before.  Having  already  heard  from 
Emma  Tressilian  of  my  change  of  position  and  fortune,  she 


tressilian's    stort.  83 

had  at  first  believed  that,  cheered  by  this  ray  of  sunshine 
on  my  path,  I  had  that  day  come  to  tell  her  in  words  what 
her  heart  had  conjectured  long  before.  More  than  all,  slie 
told  me  that,  having  won  her  affection,  she  would  have  wed- 
ded me  for  myself,  whether  my  fortunes  were  low,  as  I 
believed,  or  prosperous  as  she  knew  them  to  be. 

I  went  to  Tressilian  Court,  where  I  became  a  favourite  with 
Sir  Edgar.  Amid  all  his  pride  and  neglect,  it  had  been  his 
cherished  project  to  marry  me  to  my  cousin  Emma,  but  / 
was  engaged,  and  it  appeared  very  soon  that  she  was  attached 
elsewhere. 

One  mornins:  there  was  a  double  bridal  at  Tressilian  Court. 
The  beauty  of  Harley  street  became  more  beautiful  in  the 
wilds  of  Cornwall.  My  cousin  Emma,  transported  to  the 
garden  of  Wiltshire,  was  not  less  lovely  than  before,  nor  (her 
smiles  said)  less  happy. 

My  uncle  lived  to  see  his  grandchildren  climb  his  knee — 
to  embrace  my  children  also.  He  died  some  ten  years  ago. 
If  any  of  my  friends  here  wish  to  see  how  we  keep  up  old 
customs  at  Tressilian  Court,  I  can  only  say  that  we  shall  be 
very  much  delighted  to  receive  them. 

As  for  our  happiness — but  here  comes  my  Mariana,  little 
altered,  to  my  eyes,  from  what  she  was  when  I  married  her. 
A  son,  who  already  undutifuUy  aspires  to  overlook  his  father, 
and  a  daughter,  who  seems  nearly  as  womanly  as  her  mother, 
are  living  witnesses  how  years  steal  on  us,  no  matter  how 
happily  they  may  pass. 


84  TRESSIHAN. 

We  tlianked  Sir  Julian  Tressilian  for  Ms  story,  and  regarded 
his  very  charming  wife  with  augmented  interest.  Slight  as 
the  narrative  was,  it  bore  the  stamp  of  earnestness  and  frank- 
ness, with  the  appearance,  amid  much  strangeness  of  circum- 
stances, of  being  true. 

"  I  have  never,  as  an  author,  coveted  any  thing,"  said  Mr. 
Butler,  "so  much  as  the  reputation  which  arises  from  a 
successful  drama — I  mean  in  the  higher  rank  of  that  depart- 
ment of  literature.  It  is  more  enviable  than  that  which  any 
other  kind  of  fiction  can  bring  to  the  author,  and  infinitely 
higher,  in  its  universality,  than  what  a  Painter  usually  can 
realize." 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt,"  observed  Tressilian,  "  that  the 
success  of  which  you  speak  is  pleasing  and  exciting,  but  I 
doubt  whether  it  has  any  thing  like  the  permanence  arising 
from  performances  more  purely  literary.  A  book,  for  example, 
has  its  season  of  popularity,  but  if  it  possess  real  merit,  it 
outlasts  the  immediate  and  more  ardent  success  which  it  met 
with  at  first ;  it  finds  a  succession  of  admiring  readers,  year 
after  year ;  while  a  popular  play  runs  through  a  season,  is 
then  laid  upon  the  shelf,  and  rarely  is  heard  of  more." 

"  You  forget  that  a  good  drama,  though  it  may  cease  to  be 
acted  after  a  time — but  this  does  not  necessarily  follow — is 
read  in  the  closet,  long  after  it  has  won  a  station  upon  the 
stage.  He  who  writes  what,  for  distinction-sake,  we  may  call 
a  book,  achieves  his  reputation  by  a  slower  process  than  the 
dramatist.  Weeks  or  months  may  pass  by  before  the  book- 
maker has  the  eclat  of  success,  but  the  dramatist  bounds  to 
the  goal  with  one  eftbrt,  and  in  a  single  night.  He_may 
enter  the  theatre  an  unknown  man — he  leaves  it  covered  with 
laurels ;  and  while  his  play  is  before  the  public,  he  has  a 
succession  of  nightly  triumphs." 

"  Yes !"  exclaimed   Lady  Morton,  "  and  what   triumphs ! 


DRAMATISTS     AND      AUTHORS.  85 

He  sees  the  highest  histrionic  talent  employed  to  illustrate 
what  he  has  written,  throwing  new  light,  as  it  were,  upon  his 
thoughts,  and  investing  them  with  an  atmosphere  of  superior 
intelligence.  He  hears  the  hidden  meaning  drawn  out  of 
every  sentence,  by  the  actor's  skill — the  inflections  of  voice, 
the  variations  of  intonation,  the  grace  of  attitudes,  the 
flexibility  of  countenance,  the  poetry  of  action,  all  uniting  to 
develop  the  passion  and  the  pathos,  the  force  and  the  tender- 
ness of  what  he  has  composed.  He  finds  appropriate  scenery 
and  costume,  judiciously  employed  to  give  the  greatest  possible 
semblance  of  reaUty  to  his  drama.  He  has  a  brilliant 
theatre,  rich  in  ornaments,  and  profuse  in  lustrous  light,  in 
which  his  play  is  represented,  and,  when  required.  Music 
lends  her  aid  to  the  illusion.  He  turns  from  the  stage  to  the 
audience,  and  beholds  a  moving  sea  of  faces  in  the  pit,  a 
thronging  crowd  of  people  in  the  gallery,  a  crush  of  fashion 
and  beauty  in  the  boxes.  Unless  he  be  more  or  less  than 
man,  what  thought  must  then  occupy  his  mind  ? — that  he  has 
gathered  all  those  people  under  that  roof ;  that  his  writing, 
spoken  by  the  actors  on  the  stage,  is  able  to  make  all  these 
hearts  beat  and  throb  as  with  the  power  of  an  enchanter,  ?nd 
that  his  is  the  might  beneath  which  the  tears  flow  and  the 
smiles  arise  as  if  at  will.  Do  not  say,  then,  that  the  more 
enduring  fame  of  a  man  who  writes  a  book  is  preferable  to 
the  enthusiasm  which  rewards  the  efforts  of  him  who  composes 
a  successful  drama  of  the  higher  order." 

"You  argue  so  eloquently,"  said  Tressilian,  "that  I  am 
almost  afraid  of  replying  to  you  wnth  cold  words  of  reason. 
But  in  your  brilliant  sketch,  you  view  only  one  side  of  the 
question,  and  that  by  far  the  brightest.  You  use  too  much 
couleur  de  rose.  You  do  not  consider  that  even  a  good  play 
may  not  succeed.  You  forget  how  completely  he  who  writes 
is  at  the  mercy  of  those  who  oci  the  drama.     We  shall  even 


86  TRESSILIAN. 

imagine,  if  you  wish,  that  the  piece  has  been  produced,  and 
has  succeeded ;  and  I  grant  you  that  the  delirium  of  such 
success  is  very  delightful.  But,  on  each  successive  repre- 
sentation, as  on  the  first,  there  is  a  constant  chance  of  some- 
thing going  wrong,  which  may  turn  tlie  passion  of  the  scene 
into  what  is  ludicrous.  A  moment's  delay  in  the  shifting  of 
a  scene — the  curtain  raised  or  lowered  at  the  wronff  time — ■ 
the  failure  of  one  of  the  hundred  mechanical  processes 
behind  the  curtain  on  which  depends  the  perfection  of  what  is 
shown  on  the  stage — these  are  things  liable  to  occur  at  any 
time  during  a  performance,  and  any  one  of  these  would  change 
the  plaudits  into  hisses.  These  depend  mainly  on  the  intelli- 
gence or  the  sobriety  of  workmen,  and  may  be  provided  against, 
by  the  selection  of  proper  persons.  But  who  can  guard 
acjainst  failures  arisinof  from  the  necjlect,  the  fors^etfulness, 
the  caprice,  the  spleen,  the  ignorance,  the  dullness,  or  the 
envy  of  the  actors  themselves,  or,  sometimes,  from  the 
narrow  jealousy  of  the  manager.  He  who  has  the  smallest 
chai'acter  in  the  play — the  mere  delivery  of  a  letter,  for 
instance — may  so  mar  the  scene  in  which  he  appears,  as  to 
throw  an  air  of  burlesque  upon  the  most  serious  and  touching 
passages.  On  the  other  hand,  the  author  of  a  book,  if  his 
reputation  be  of  less  sudden  growth,  has  more  certainty  of 
its  continuance.  What  he  has  written,  will  stand  or  fall  by 
the  impression  which  its  perusal  makes  on  each  individual 
mind,  and  on  the  multitude  of  minds." 

"  I  notice,"  said  Crayon,  "  that  the  comparison  between  the 
success  of  a  dramatist  and  of  a  painter  has  been  only  glanced 
at.  For  my  own  part,  I  think  that  Literature,  as  regards  the 
permanence  of  fame,  may  claim  a  higher  place  than  Art, 
which,  in  many  cases  is  tradition  rather  than  fact.  A  picture 
or  a  statue  perishes,  a  book  lives  for  ever." 

"  What !"  said  Tressilian,  "  with  all  the  eternal  specimens 


IMMORTALITY     OF      ART.  8? 

of  ancient  and  modern  art  before  us — in  painting,  sculpture, 
and  architec^ture — with  which  Europe  is  crowded  ?  You 
forget  the  Titians,  the  Raphaels,  the  Guidos,  the  Correggios, 
the  Murillos,  the  Michel  Angelos,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
master-minds  to  which  we  owe  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  the 
Medician  Venus,  the  Laocoon,  and  a  host  of  other  statues." 

"  No,  I  fully  bear  them  all  in  mind,"  replied  Crayon,  "  but 
I  remember  also  how  the  epics  of  Homer,  and  the  dramas  of 
Sophocles,  ^schylus,  Euripides,  and  Aristophanes  have  main- 
tained a  yet  greater  celebrity.  When  I  think  of  the  perma- 
nence of  Letters,  and  the  perishing  nature  of  what  the  Fine 
Arts  produce,  I  am  tempted  to  exclaim,  as  Napoleon  did, 
■whep.  some  one  spoke  of  an  immortal  painting,  the  material 
of  which,  with  care,  might  last  for  five  hundred  years,  '  Bah  ! 
the  immortality  of  a  picture  !" 

"The  painting  itself  might  perish,"  said  Lady  Tressilian, 
"  but  its  memory  would  last.  The  graver  perpetuates  what 
the  pencil  has  drawn,  I  remember  that  when  we  were  at 
Milan,  we  were  shewn  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  picture  of  The 
Last  Supper,  which  was  at  once  the  glory  of  the  Painter,  and 
the  wonder  of  the  age  which  he  had  adorned.  But,  within 
a  century  after  it  was  executed,  it  had  so  much-  mouldered 
away  from  damp,  and  want  of  care,  as  to  have  presented  but 
the  shadow  of  its  original  beauty.  It  is  now  a  doubt  whether 
it  was  originally  painted  in  oil,  fresco,  or  tempera.  When 
we  saw  it,  it  was  so  much  the  fragile  vision  of  a  picture,  that 
we  had  some  difficulty,  at  first,  in  tracing  even  the  outlines.* 

*  This  renowned  picture  is  yet  to  be  seen,  on  the  wall  of  the  refectory  of  the 
Dominican  Convent  (now  a  barrack),  at  Milan.  In  IT'26,  and  again  in  1770,  it  was 
painted  over  by  mediocre  artists,  who  gave  the  name  of  restoration  to  their 
daubing.  In  1865,  Signor  Barizzi,  of  Parma,  removed  this  double  coating  from  the 
picture,  and  what  remains — though  dim  and  faded  in  parts — is  undoubtedly  the 
original,  as  executed  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Several  obliterated  portions  have  been 
revived,  and  the  whole  restoration  is  most  valuable,  particularly  for  its  bringing 


88  TRESSILIAN. 

But  thougli  the  colouring  could  not  be  re-produced,  the  com- 
position has  been  made  eternal.  There  are  so  many 
engravings  of  this  picture,  that  we  can  now  almost  bear  with 
its  loss.  So,  after  all,  it  does  not  appear  quite  so  absurd  to 
talk  of  'the  immortality  of  a  painting.'  While  the  graver 
remains,  with  skillful  hands  to  use  it,  no  picture  can  be  lost — 
the  colouring  may  fleet,  but  the  grace  and  form  remain." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Butler,  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  not  convinced — 
for  the  engraving  can  but  give  us  form,  and  colour  is  an 
essential  which  nothing  can  supply." 

"  Just  now,"  observed  Tressilian,  "  I  should  rather  write  a 
book  than  a  drama — because,  after  I  had  completed  my  play, 
the  chance  is,  that  it  would  remain  in  my  own  desk,  or  in 
company  with  a  heap  of  other  unacted  dramas,  in  the 
Manager's  drawer/' 

"  Truly,  as  you  say,"  said  the  Major,  "  the  English  drama  is 
at  a  low  ebb,  when  we  compare  it  with  what  it  was,  even  a 
score  of  years  ago." 

"  There  are  obvious  causes  for  its  decline,"  said  Mr.  Moran, 
who  had  been  out  of  the  room  during  the  preceding 
dialogue,  and  had  only  just  returned.  "  The  actors,  and  the 
play-wrights,  are  not  equal  to  what  they  have  been." 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  Tressilian.  "  Because  acting  and 
wTiting,  like  spring-flowers,  require  the  sunshine?  Twenty 
or  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  it  was  the  fashion  in  London  to 
go  to  the  play.  Then  a  good  company  of  performers  at  each 
theatre  was  a  necessity.  Writing  for  such  performers  was 
well  paid  for.  AVhen  Royalty  ceased  to  attend  the  theatres, 
tlie  Aristocracy  also  ceased ;  and  with  them  the  crowd  who 
follow  in  their  footsteps.     By  degrees,  the  National  Stage,  for 


out  the  principal  bead,  in  its  profound,  but  mournful  calmness,  Its  dlTine  benignity, 
and  Wi  sublimity  of  resignation. 


• 


DECLINE      OF     TffE     DRAMA.  89 

acting,  grew  out  of  favour,  and  the  Italian  Stage,  for  singing 
became  the  fashion.  Queen  Victoria,  had  she  taken  kindly 
to  the  national  drama,  might  have  done  much  to  restore  its 
popularity,  but  her  taste  runs  upon  Italian  opera  and  French 
plays,  to  the  detriment  of  English  plays  and  players.  As  she 
leads,  the  Aristocracy  follow.  To  revive  the  drama,  in  any 
country,  requires  only  the  encouragement  which  origiual 
talent  ought  to  receive,  and  has  every  right  to  expect." 

"Yes,"  said  Crayon,  "provided  the  Starring  system  be 
abolished.  It  has  led  to  extravagant  sums  being  paid  to  a 
few  pufted  individuals,  and,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  to  the 
reduction  of  the  salaries  paid  to  the  bulk  of  the  perforin^s. 
When  one  liears  of  as  much  being  paid  to  a  melo-dramatic 
actor,  as  a  Star,  for  a  single  night's  performance,  as  was  paid 
to  Mrs.  Siddons  or  John  Kemble  for  a  month's  laborious  and 
constant  acting,  who  can  wonder  at  theatrical  speculations 
being  unremunerative?" 

"There  is  much  in  what  you  say,"  said  our  Irish  friend. 
"My  father  told  me  that  at  the  Crow-street  Theatre,  in 
Dublin,  in  his  day,  the  drama  was  so  popular  that  sometimes 
there  used  to  be  more  in  the  house,  than  the  house  could 
hold." 

"  A  bull,  by  Jove !"  exclaimed  the  !Major,  amid  laughter 
from  all — none  enjoying  it  more  than  the  maker  of  the 
blunder. 

"The  result  of  dramatic  discouragement  in  England,"  said 
Crayon,  "is  that  the  best  performers,  as  soon  as  they  estab- 
lish a  reputation  at  home,  hasten  across  the  Atlantic,  where 
the  drama  is  appreciated,  and  become  absorbed  in  the  stock 
companies  there.  Who  that  has  seen  theatres  and  acting  in 
America,  but  must  confess  that  while  the  drama  gives  few 
symptoms  of  vitality  here,  it  is  eminently  successful  there. 
And  why  ?     Because  the  demand  for  good  performers  creates 


90  TRESSILIAN. 

the  supply.  Because  managers  there  seek  support,  not  from  the 
capricious  patronage  of  Royalty  and  her  satellites,  but  from 
the  great  mass  of  a  community  educated,  as  it  were,  to 
distinguish  all  the  fine  points  of  good  acting.  The  patronage 
of  the  drama,  is  a  conventional  phrase,  which  we  should 
reject  from  our  vocabulary.  Neither  Literature,  Art,  nor 
Science  should  depend  upon  mere  patronage.  A  Nation 
itself,  rather  than  individuals,  should  patronise  merit  wherever 
it  be  found." 

"Let  me  enquire,"  said  Tressilian,  "whether  the  Ameri- 
cans, whom  you  seem  to  know,  give  as  much  encouragement 
to  Art  as  they  do  to  the  Drama  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  But  never  had  a  country  a  finer  starting-point, 
for  they  possess — as  the  genius  of  the  men  has  proved — 
painters,  sculptors,  and  engravers,  able  to  cope  with  the 
leading  artists  of  Europe.  Never  had  a  country  a  finer  scope 
for  domiciling  the  fine  Arts  throughout  its  various  sections. 
Every  State  should  possess,  and  can  readily  form,  a  National 
Gallery  of  its  own.  My  idea  of  such  an  institution,  wherever 
placed,  whether  in  the  Old  World  or  the  New,  is  simply 
this : — The  best  paintings  and  sculptures  executed  by  Native 
Artists,  whether  publicly  exhibited  or  not — because  works  of 
merit  are  frequently  not  even  received  into  the  Exhibitions, 
on  the  plea  of  "  want  of  room  " — should  be  purchased,  year 
after  year,  on  the  responsibility  of  a  Committee  of  Selection, 
consisting  of  men  of  recognised  taste  and  judgment,  none  of 
whom  should  be  in  any  way  connected  with  any  Exhibiting 
body  of  Artists.  A  comparatively  small  sum,  judiciously 
expended  in  this  manner,  would  do  more  to  advance  Art  and 
Artists  than  twice  the  amount  disbursed  by  private  purchasers. 
This  would  be  the  most  effectual  recognition  of  Art,  for  it 
would  encourage  native  talent ;  and,  if  this  system  were  once 
in  operation,  the  Painter  and  the  Sculptor  would  have  their 


PRINCIPLES      OF     ART.  91 

faculties  called  into  emulative  action,  from  a  consciousness 
tbat  they  were  working  for  a  National  reputation.  Thus  there 
would  be  constantly  increasing  collections  of  works  of  native 
Art — the  best  productions  of  each  year — and,  as  these  accumu- 
lated, specimens  of  each  Artist  might  be  drafted  off  into 
provincial  galleries,  and  thus  extend  a  knowledge  of  Art,  by 
placing  constantly  before  the  public,  examples  of  what  Genius 
and  Talent  are  accomplishing,  season  after  season,  in  each 
country." 

"  Bravo  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Butler,  "  but  would  not  this  rather 
tend  to  dispense  with  private  patronage '" 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  would  lead  to  such  a  knowledge  of 
Art,  and  a  taste  for  it  too,  as  would  necessarily  involve,  with 
that  knowledge  and  taste,  an  increase  of  private  patronage. 
But  this  should  commence  at  the  right  end.  At  this  moment, 
with  infinite  talk  about  Art,  we  know  so  little  of  it,  that 
when  a^man  makes  a  purchase,  he  buys  a  name  rather  than  a 
performance.  The  celebrity  of  the  artist,  rather  than  the  real 
merit  of  the  work,  has  too  much  become  the  test.  In  litera- 
ture the  educated  mind  forms  its  own  judgment  and,  though 
a  great  name  be  labelled  on  it,  will  not  approve  of  what  is 
indifferent.  A  book  is  estimated  justly,  on  its  intrinsic  value, 
though,  naturally  enough,  its  perusal  gives  increased  pleasure 
if  it  be  from  the  pen  of  an  established  and  familiar  writer, — 
for  the  reader  then  has  the  opportunity  of  comparing  the 
new  performance  with  previous  performances,  and  of  judging 
for  and  by  itself,  whether  it  exceed  or  foil  short,  not  only  of 
the  general  standard,  but  of  the  standard  which  that  parti- 
cular writer  has  enabled  us  to  make  of  his  own  capacity  and 
knowledge.  The  principles  of  Art  should  form  part  of  every 
gentleman's  education,  just  as  the  principles  of  Literature  do. 
Then  he  would  be  able  to  recoo-nise  the  value  of  a  work  of 
art,  whoever  the  author  (as  readily  as  he  now  recognises  the 


92  TRESSILIAN. 

value  of  a  literary  composition),  and  would  not  hesitate  to 
become  the  possessor  of  what  he  knew  to  be  good,  even 
though  the  artist's  name  had  hitherto  been  unheard  of.  At 
present,  place  a  fine  production,  from  an  unknown  hand, 
beside  a  piece  of  mediocrity  by  one  who  has  gained  the 
world's  applause,  and  the  good  work  will  scarcely  find  a 
purchaser,  even  at  a  low  price,  while  the  indiflferent  work  will 
be  bought  for  a  large  sum,  because  its  maker  is  known. 
Why  is  this  ? — because,  with  a  few  exceptions,  those  who  buy 
works  of  Art,  do  not  possess  even  that  general  knowledge  of 
the  principles  of  Art,  which  w^ould  enable  them  to  appreciate 
merit  whenever  it  was  exhibited." 

"  I  have  seen  most  of  the  fine  paintings  in  Europe,"  said 
the  Major,  "  and  have  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  high  art 
will  be  more  benefited  by  the  purchase  of  modern  pictures 
than  by  the  obtaining  even  undoubted  originals  by  the  old 
masters.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart,  as  America  has  been 
spoken  of,  that  I  were  an  American  citizen,  with  a  large  for- 
tune, and  my  present  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  art." 

"  Perhaps  you  w-ill  condescend  to  inform  us,  if  you  please, 
on  what  grounds  you  form  the  desire  of  de-nationalizing 
yourself?" 

"  I  may  have  clumsily  expressed  it,  but  I  alluded  to  the 
facihty  and  delight  with  which,  in  America,  a  man  who 
understood  and  loved  Art  might  gratify  his  taste,  safely  invest 
money,  and  give  native  talent  the  support  it  requires.  Were 
I  an  American,  with  means  to  command,  no  foreign  pictures 
should  hang  upon  my  walls,  I  should  purchase  works  executed 
by  the  living  artists  of  the  country,  and  I  am  confident,  if  I 
exercised  judgment  and  taste,  that  on  my  death  my  collection 
■would  bring  at  least  four  times  the  original  cost,  for  the  value 
of  a  good  painting  is  always  on  the  rise." 
. "  The  formation  of  a  National  Gallery  such  as  Mr.  Crayon 


PATRONAGE   OF  NATIVE   TALENT.     93 

has  suggested,"  said  Tressilian,  "  would  not  prevent  the  fullest 
encouragement  being  given  to  Art  by  individuals.  Rich  as  is 
the  Louvre  in  the  treasures  of  Art,  what  most  won  my  admira- 
tion in  Paris  was  the  Luxembourg,  in  which  are  collected 
some  of  the  best  works  of  living  artists.  Depend  on  it  that, 
until  native  talent  be  encouraged,  in  this  or  some  other  suffi- 
cient manner,  artists  will  still  have  ground,  for  the  old  and 
melancholy  complaint  that  they  struggle  for  glory,  while  they 
often  want  bread." 

"  Do  you  not  unconsciously  exaggerate  ?"  said  Tressilian. 

"No,"  answered  Crayon,  "on  the  Continent,  native  Art 
ever  was  cared  for,  when  worthy.  Even  amid  their  wildest 
schemes  of  ambition  and  conquest,  the  Princes  and  their 
Nobles  encouraged  Art.  If  the  subject  has  not  quite  fatigued 
you,  I  shall  be  happy  to  illustrate  this  by  relating  an  anec- 
dote of  Velasquez,  the  Spanish  painter,  whose  King  was  also 
his  familiar  friend." 

As  we  all  concurred  in  wishing  to  hear  this  anecdote,  Mr. 
Crayon  thus  related  it : — 


94  TRESSILIAN. 


YELASQUEZ  AND  HIS  MESTIZO. 

In  the  Alcazar  Real,  at  Madrid,  two  centuries  ago,  one 
suite  of  apartments  was  particularly  honoured.  Therein,  Genius 
had  its  local  habitation.  There  its  works  were  executed 
under  the  personal  surveillance  of  one  who,  amid  the  weight 
of  Royal  duties,  not  only  delighted  to  hold  familiar  converse 
with  the  followers  of  Art,  but  was  also  the  patron  of  Letters. 
The  monarch  was  the  same  Philip  the  Fourth,  to  whose  acquain- 
tance, as  Prince  of  the  Asturias,  we  have  been  introduced  by 
Gil  Bias.  The  painter  (distinguished  in  his  own  time,  and 
for  all  time,  as  rivalling  the  skill,  in  portraiture,  which  Titian 
and  Vandyke  have  elevated  into  historical  importance),  was 
Diego  Rodriguez  da  Silva  y  Velasquez. 

Born  at  Seville  in  the  last  year  of  the  sixteenth  century 
(the  same  time  in  which  Vandyke  was  given  to  the  world  at 
Antwerp),  of  parents  who  were  noble  in  blood,  but  reduced  in 
circumstances,  Velasquez  received  from  them  all  that  they 
could  bestow — a  liberal  education.  He  showed  such  an  early 
and  strong  predilection  for  Art,  that  he  was  placed  under  the 
elder  Herrara — an  artist  whose  temper  was  warm,  as  his  genius 
was  undoubted,  and  whose  vigorous  touch  and  brilliant  colour- 
ing, even  yet  may  be  considered  as  scarcely  inferior  to  what 
is  exhibited  in  the  best  Avorks  of  Rubens.  From  him,  no 
doubt,  Velasquez  derived  the  boldness  and  vigour  which  so 
soon  distinguished  him.  No  pupil  could  long  endure  the  ill- 
temper  and  harshness  of  such  a  master  as  Ilerrara,  and  Velas- 


VELASQUEZ     AND     HIS     MESTIZO.  95 

quez  sought  and  found  more  agreeable  instruction  from  Fran- 
cisco Pacheco,  to  whose  pen,  as  its  historian,  Spanish  Art 
owes  more  than  it  does  to  his  pencil. 

It  would  appear  as  if  (even  like  Titian  with  his  masters, 
the  Bellini),  Velasquez  soon  emerged  from  the  conventional 
methods  and  hard  style  of  his  second  instructor.  Pacheco 
was  one  who  carefully  observed  the  traditions  of  Art — he  has 
been  called  "  a  man  of  rules  and  precepts," — he  was  always 
elaborate,  sometimes  graceful,  but  he  did  not  presume  to  fol- 
low Nature.  Velasquez,  on  the  contrary,  commenced,  con- 
tinued, and  ended,  by  keeping  Nature  always  in  view.  From 
the  first,  he  neither  sketched  nor  coloured  any  object  which 
was  not  actually  before  his  eyes.  For  some  time,  he  painted 
nothing  but  still  life,  and  the  k\v  specimens  of  his  early 
industry  which  remain,  shew  all  the  minuteness  and  literal 
fidelity  of  the  Flemish  school.  Sometimes,  he  went  among 
the  multitude  for  studies — he  found  them  in  the  streets  of 
Seville,  and  on  the  highways  of  Andalusia — and  he  painted 
them  with  a  spirit  and  faithfulness,  such  as  are  scarcely  sur- 
passed even  in  the  works  of  Murillo.  Thus,  by  a  variety  of 
Labour,  he  acquired  Facility,  and  with  these  he  combined 
Truth ;  hence,  perhaps,  the  Actual  has  so  largely  predomi- 
nated in  his  works  over  the  Ideal. 

After  five  years'  study,  under  the  roof  of  Pacheco,  at  Seville, 
Velasquez  determined  to  visit  Madrid,  in  order  to  study  the 
great  painters  of  Castile  on  their  native  soil,  to  examine  tho 
treasures  of  Italian  Art  which  had  been  accumulated  there  by 
the  taste  and  munificence  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  and  his 
successors,  and  to  establish  himself,  if  he  could,  in  a  city, 
where  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  Literature  were  then  emi- 
nently encouraged — the  reigning  monarch,  Philip  IV.,  their 
declared  patron,  being  himself  imbued  with  taste  and  know- 
ledge. 


96  TRESSILIAN. 

During  the  reign  of  this  monarch,  the  Castilian  stage  may 
be  said  to  have  been  in  its  greatest  glory.  Men  of  letters 
filled  honorable  posts  about  the  kingly  persons,  Philip,  who 
wrote  his  own  fine  language  with  spirit  and  elegance,  was 
himself  a  poet ;  and  a  tragedy  from  his  pen,  on  the  story  of 
the  English  favourite,  Essex,  still  maintains  its  place  among 
the  dramatic  wealth  of  Castile.  He  has  been  praised  as  one 
of  the  most  accomplished  musicians  of  his  time.  He  could 
draw  and  paint  with  skill  and  effect,  and  thus  had  practical 
knowledge  to  assist  his  judgment.  lie  projected  an  Academy 
of  the  Fine  Arts,  which  the  jealousies  of  artists  alone  caused 
not  to  be  established.  He  bartered  the  gold  of  Mexico  and 
Peru,  for  the  artistic  treasures  of  Italy  and  the  Low  Count- 
ries. He  culled  the  fairest  flowers  from  contemporary  studios 
in  his  own  realm.  Seldom  has  Art  found  a  patron  at  once  so 
discriminating  and  munificent  as  Philip  the  Fourth  of  Spain. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-three,  Velasquez  23roceeded  to  Madrid, 
accompanied  only  by  Juan  de  Pareja,  his  slave.  He  arrived 
there  in  April,  1622,  and  through  Don  Juan  de  Fonseca  (a 
man  of  noble  birth,  a  native  of  Seville,  an  amateur  artist  of 
some  merit  attadied  to  the  person  of  the  King  by  his  office 
of  Usher  of  the  Curtain),  obtained  the  entree  to  the  royal  gal- 
leries, in  which  he  industriously  studied  for  several  months, 
but  had  to  return  to  Seville  without  having  painted  the 
King's  portrait. 

Shortly  after,  however,  he  received  a  letter  of  command  to 
proceed  to  court.  Thither  he  went,  and  immediately 
painted  the  portrait  of  his  friend  Fonseca,  in  whose  house 
they  lodged.  The  very  day  that  picture  was  finished,  it  was 
taken  to  the  palace,  where  it  was  seen  and  admired  by  the 
King,  the  Infantes,  and  the  courtiers,  all  of  whom  immedi- 
ately came  to  visit  the  artist.  So  favourably  was  it  considered, 
that  Velasquez   was  immediately  retained   for   the   King's 


VELASQUEZ     AND      HIS     MESTIZO.  97 

service,  and  oommanded  to  paint  a  portrait  of  one  of  the 
Kino-'s  brothers — made  a  sketch  of  Charles  Stuart,  Prince 
of  Wales,  then  on  his  love-visit  to  Madrid*— and  commenced 
tliat  fine  equestrian  portrait  of  Philip,  which,  when  completed 
in  August,  1623,  was  exhibited  in  the  most  public  thorough- 
fare of  Madrid,  eliciting  sonnets  from  poets,  admiration  even 
from  rivals,  the  praise  from  the  Minister,  the  Count-Duke  of 
Olivarez,  that  the  portrait  of  the  King  had  never  been 
painted  until  now,  and  the  expression  of  a  design  on  the  part 
of  Philip  not  only  to  sit  to  none  but  Velasquez,  but  to  collect 
all  previous  portraits  of  himself,  in  order  to  cancel  them. 

This  was  the  culminating  point  of  the  fortunes  of  Velasquez. 
He  was  made  the  King's  Painter — granted  a  handsome 
residence  adjoining  the  palace,  with  a  liberal  pension — engaged 
constantly  on  portraits  of  the  royal  family — encouraged  by 
large  remuneration  to  execute  historical  and  other  paintings — 
received  successive  and  lucrative  appointments  about  the 
royal  person — permitted,  on  the  recommendation  of  Rubens, 
to  go  to  Italy  for  two  years,  not  without  loss  of  station  or 
income,  but  with  liberal  presents  from  the  King — honoured 
for  his  genius  while  abroad — graciously  received  by  his  Royal 
master  on  his  return,  in  1631,  and  favoured  with  that  removal 
to  a  studio  in  the  Alcazar,  which  enabled  the  King  to  pay 
him  daily  visits — taken  as  the  King's  companion  in  his 
journeys — sent  on  a  mission  to  Italy,  in  1648,  to  collect  works 
of  Art,  partly  for  the  Royal  galleries,  and  partly  for  the 
intended  Academy  of  Madrid — executed  at  Rome  a  portrait 
of  Pope  Innocent  X.,  so  strikingly  like,  that  one  of  the 
Chamberlains,  seeing  the  picture  through  the  door  of  an  ante- 


♦  From  which  sketch,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  Velasquez  painted  the 
portrait  of  Charles,  formerly  in  the  Earl  of  Fife's  collection,  in  London,  and  now 
in  possession  of  Mr.  John  Snare,  Egyptian  Museum,  Now  York.  It  is  one  of  tlie 
finest  portraits  in  the  world. 


98  TRESSILIAN. 

room,  advised  liis  fellow-courtiers  to  lower  their  voice,  as  the 
Holy  Father  was  in  the  next  chamber — was  rewarded,  on  his 
return  to  Madrid,  after  a  three  years'  absence,  with  the 
appointment,  at  once  dignified  and  lucrative,  of  Aposentador- 
Major  of  the  King's  household,  which  made  him  at  once 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  Lord  Steward  and  Lord  Chamber- 
lain— received  the  office  of  Gold  Key,  which  gave  him,  as  of 
right,  a  key  to  open  every  door  in  the  palace,  an  appointment 
heretofore  bestowed  on  none  but  the  highest  nobility — and 
was  thenceforth  consulted  by  the  King,  not  only  on  matters 
of  Literature  and  Art,  but,  as  one  who  had  read  much  and 
visited  foreign  countries,  on  state,  and  family  affairs  of 
importance  and  delicacy.  Thus  Velasquez,  the  Painter,  was 
honoured,  encouraged,  rewarded,  confided  in,  by  a  monarch 
singularly  jealous  and  captious. 

Years  had  rolled  on,  and  it  was  now  the  twenty-third  since 
the  Painter  had  engaged  the  attention  of  King  Philip.  The 
monarch  had  now  reached  his  fiftieth  year,  while  the  Painter 
was  his  senior  by  five  years.  In  the  studio,  at  the  Alcazar, 
two  persons  might  be  seen — the  King  and  the  Painter. 
There  was  a  third  (if  one  so  humble  be,  indeed,  worth 
notice),  the  Juan  de  Pareja.  Son  of  a  Spanish  Cavalier 
and  a  Moorish  woman,  Juan  was  a  Mestizo,  or  half-caste,  one 
of  a  description  of  slaves  then  common  in  Andalusia,  lie 
was  some  seven  years  younger  than  Velasquez,  and  had  been 
his  property  from  childhood,  lie  was  a  bright-eyed,  well- 
featured  mulatto,  neither  lacking  intelligence  nor  observation 
— but  who  would  heed  him  ?  For  years  past  his  duty  had 
been  to  attend  on  his  master  in  the  studio ;  to  clean  the 
brushes,  grind  the  colours,  prepare  the  palettes,  adjust  the 
canvas,  and  fix  the  easel  in  its  proper  angle  of  inclination. 
His  life  had  passed  in  this  employment.  Too  insignificant 
was  a  menial  Mestizo,  in  the  eyes  of  Prince  and  Painter,  for 


VELASQUEZ     AND      HIS      MESTIZO.  99 

a  single  thought.  They  always  conversed  together,  while  he 
was  in  the  room,  precisely  as  if  he  were  absent.  Yet  Nature 
had  endowed  the  Mestizo  with  some  gifts,  and,  among  them, 
with  that  of  Genius. 

It  was  now  the  year  1656.  Velasquez  was  busy  on  that 
last  great  work,  which  artists  and  connoisseurs  have  agreed 
to  call  hhchef  d''oeuvre — as  much  from  the  difficulties  which 
he  combated  and  overcame,  as  the  consummate  resources  of 
art,  which  he  then  developed.  This  is  the  large  picture,  called 
Las  Meniiias  (or  the  Maids  of  Honour),  which  now  is  one  of 
the  gems  of  the  Royal  Museum  of  Madrid.  It  represents 
Velasquez  painting  the  Infanta  of  Spain,  Maria  Margarita, 
who  afterwards  became  Empress  of  Germany.  On  the  left, 
one  Maid  of  Honour  hands  a  cup,  on  a  salver,  to  the  youth- 
ful, and  fair-haired  Princess,  shown  in  the  centre  of  the 
picture ;  another  is  in  the  act  of  making  an  obeisance ;  two 
dwarfs  vary  the  action  in  the  fore-ground  by  caressing  a 
majestic  dog ;  behind,  a  Lady  of  Honour,  attired  as  a  nun,  is 
speaking  to  one  of  the  officers  of  the  Court;  through  an 
open  door  is  seen  another  officer  ascending  a  staircase ;  in  a 
mirror  near  this  door,  are  reflected  the  countenances  of  the 
King  and  Queen,  who,  though  actually  out  of  the  bounds  of 
the  picture,  are  thus  brought  on  as  part  of  the  principal 
group.  Around  the  room  are  represented  pictures  from  the 
hand  of  Rubens.  To  add  to  the  pictorial  difficulties,  the 
apartment  is  shown  as  lighted  by  three  windows  on  one 
side,  and  an  open  door  at  the  end,  thus  giving  the  cross 
lights,  with  which  artists  have  so  much  difficulty.  In  the 
extreme  right  of  the  picture  is  placed  the  easel  on  which 
Velasquez  is  at  work,  and  beyond  it  is  the  Painter,  palette 
and  pencils  in  hand,  pausing  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  look  at 
tha  effect  of  his  composition.  Every  figure  is  the  size  of  life, 
and  it  has  been  justly  said  that  the  perfection  of  art,  that 


100  TRESSILIAN. 

of  concealing  art,  was  never  better  attained  tlian  in  this 
picture. 

"  The  work  advances  bravely,"  said  the  King,  *'  it  will 
certainly  be  finished  to-day.  The  Queen,  who  often  comes  to 
see  it,  speaks  so  much  and  so  warmly  of  it,  that  all  the  Court 
are  impatient  to  behold,  and  to  admire  it.  You  have 
certainly  surpassed  all  that  you  have  done  before.  Turn 
where  I  may,  the  blue  eyes  of  the  Infanta  seem  to  follow  me. 
I  doubt,  my  Velasquez,  whether  the  likeness  be  not  even 
more  striking  than  that  of  the  Admiral  Pareja,  which  you 
painted  for  me  immediately  after  your  second  visit  to  Italy. 
You  remember  that?" 

"Your  Majesty  has  resolved  that  I  shall  not  forget  it." 

"  Could  I  forget  the  first,  and  only  deceit  you  ever  used 
towards  me  ?  I  had  sent  the  Admiral  to  his  command  in 
New  Spain.  He  had  taken  leave.  I  thought  him  far  away. 
I  came  into  this  room,  from  which  you  had  excluded  all  light, 
save  that  which  falls  upon  the  canvas.  The  portrait  that  you 
had  finished  stood  against  the  wall,  in  yonder  comer. 
Mistaking  it  for  the  man  himself,  I  angrily  rated  the  Admiral 
for  having  delayed  his  departure.  I  received  no  reply,  and 
then,  as  I  angrily  advanced,  I  discovered  my  mistake." 

"  Yet,  Sire,"  said  Velasquez,  "  this  was  nothing  very 
remarkable.  To  say  nothing  of  Zeuxis  deceiving  the  binls 
with  his  gi'apes,  or  Parrhasius  painting  a  curtain,  wliich 
deceived  even  Zeuxis  himself,  it  is  related  that  when  Titian 
exposed  his  portraits  of  Pope  Paul  the  Third,  and  the  Emperor 
Charles  the  Fifth,  in  the  open  air,  one  on  a  terrace,  and  one 
beneath  a  colonnade,  the  populace,  who  went  by,  reverently 
saluted  them,  as  if  one  had  actually  held  the  keys  of  St.  Peter, 
and  the  other  the  sceptre  of  the  great  Charlemagne." 

"As  to  Zeuxis  and  Parrhasius,"  said  Philip,  "you  havo 
gone  very  far  back  for  examples,  which  may  or  may  net  be 


VELASQUEZ      AND      HIS      MESTIZO.  101 

true,  and  it  is  clear  that  the  grapes  must  have  been  better 
painted  than  the  man  who  bore  them,  else  the  birds,  alarmed 
at  him,  would  not  have  pecked  at  them.  With  respect  to 
the  portraits  by  Titian,  in  sooth,  if  ever  pencil  could  etiect 
a  miracle,  it  was  his,  and  the  story  may  be  believed.  But  he 
only  deceived  the  ignorant  populace  in  the  streets,  while  you, 
my  Velasquez,  did  deceive  your  friend,  a  King  who  at  least 
claims  the  merit  of  loving  and  of  understanding  the  excel- 
lencies and  difficulties  of  Art.  I  tell  you  that  I  thought  that 
I  actually  was  face  to  face  with  the  swarthy  features,  and 
overhanging  brows,  and  thick  dark  hair,  and  somewhat  surly 
features  of  our  Admiral.  "Why  travel  out  of  Spam  for  an 
illustration  ?  Have  you  forgotten  that  Juan  Pantoja,  who 
was  in  great  favour  with  Philip  the  Second,  painted  an  eagle 
which  had  been  caught  in  the  chase  near  the  Prado,  and  did 
it  so  well,  that  when  the  captured  bird  saw  the  picture,  he  broke 
loose,  and  tore  the  canvas  with  his  talons  and  beak,  believing 
he  saw  an  opponent." 

Thus  familiar  was  the  conversation  between  the  Monarch  and 
the  Painter.  Presently  the  pencil  was  laid  aside — resumed 
once  or  twice,  to  give  more  and  more  finishing  touches — and 
then  Velasquez  announced  that  his  work  was  completed. 

"  Methinks,"  said  the  King,  after  he  had  attentively  sur- 
veyed it,  "  there  is  no  better  picture  than  this  in  Spain.  I 
rejoice  that  I  suggested  the  main  point  of  its  composition, 
and  persuaded — nay,  even  had  to  command  you,  to  enrich  it 
by  the  introduction  of  your  own  portrait.  In  after-times 
this  painting  may  probably  derive  much  of  its  interest  from 
its  exhibiting  to  posterity  the  resemblance  of  the  artist.  One 
thing,  and  one  only,  that  portrait  wants,  but  it  can  be  supplied 
at  another  time,  and  by  another  hand." 

Velasquez  bowed — he  was  too  much,  a  courtier  to  bandy 


102  TRESSILIAN. 

compliments  -witli  his  Sovereign.  He  then  requested  the 
King  to  excuse  liis  attendance  at  that  time,  as  the  duties  of 
his  oflBce  called  him  away  for  a  few  hours. 

"  I  shall  even  extend  the  time,"  said  the  King.  "  Be  an 
exile  from  this  studio  until  to-morrow." 

So  saying,  and  with  a  gentle  familiarity  which  could  not 
have  offended  even  an  equal,  Philip  pushed  Velasquez  out  of 
the  room,  and  took  up  the  palette  and  the  pencil  which  the 
Painter  had  laid  down. 

The  Mestizo,  meanwhile,  had  been  pursuing  his  usual 
employment — grinding  colours  for  his  master.  Besides  the 
preparation  of  the  palette  and  other  materials  of  Art,  he 
■was  intrusted  with  the  arrangement  of  draperies,  the  care  of 
pictures,  the  custody  of  books  and  manuscripts.  Except 
when  thus  employed,  Velasquez  seldom  required  his  services. 
Much  leisure,  therefore,  the  Mestizo  had  enjoyed,  and  well 
had  he  availed  himself  of  the  boon.  Velasquez  had  him 
taught  how  to  read  and  write,  and  he  was  familiar  with 
the  contents  of  every  volume  in  his  master's  possession. 
During  thirty  years  in  which  he  had  seen  the  constant  prac- 
tice in  the  Art,  the  poor  Mestizo — unregarded,  despised  as  he 
was — had  been  a  keen  and  emulative  observer.  Perhaps,  too, 
he  sometimes  even  had  the  presumption  to  think  that  what 
he  had  seen  he  could  imitate. 

The  King,  who  was  an  excellent  judge  cf  Art,  now 
placed  himself  opposite  the  easel,  and  rapidly  painted  in  with 
his  own  hand  the  distinguishing  chain,  badge,  and  cross  of 
the  Order  of  Santiajro.  He  had  skill  enouo-h  to  execute  this 
with  tolerable  ability. 

The  King  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Ilalf-an-liour  yet 
remained  before  supper,  which  at  that  time  was  usually 
served  ere  the  sun  had  set,  and,  as  was  his  custom  often  when 


VELASQUEZ      AND      HIS      MESTIZO.  103 

lie  -wanted  to  kill  time,  lie  ordered  that  the  pictures  which 
stood  on  the  floor  with  their  faces  to  the  wall  should  be 
turned,  that  he  might  see  them. 

Picture  aftei-  picture  was  thus  rapidly  exhibited.  His 
Majesty  yawned — he  had  seen,  them  all  before.  At  last  the 
Mestizo  ventured  to  show  a  portrait  of  the  King,  which, 
although  it  evidently  resembled  the  colouring  and  style  of 
Velasquez,  as  evidently  was  not  from  that  master's  pencil. 
Philip  was  startled,  "Know  you,"  said  he,  "who  painted 
this  ?  Assuredly  I  never  sat  for  this  portrait ;  yet  its  execu- 
tion displays  merit,  and,  if  I  may  judge  of  my  own  features,  it 
is  an  excellent  likeness."  Resting  upon  the  Mestizo,  his  glance 
maintained  the  enquiry  which  his  lips  thus  made. 

The  Mestizo  threw  himself  at  the  King's  feet,  and  faltered 
out  a  confession,  that  the  portrait  had  been  stealthily  painted 
by  himself — for,  with  much  labour  and  difficulty,  he  had 
learned  to  imitate  Velasquez — and  that,  fearing  punish- 
ment for  his  presumption,  yet  anxious  to  interest  the  King  in 
his  favour,  he  had  ventured  on  this  expedient,  in  his  master's 
absence,  of  showing  what  he  could  do. 

At  that  time,  in  any  part  of  Christendom,  the  idea  of  a 
Slave  attempting  to  become  a  Painter,  would  have  been 
received  with  incredulity  and  indignation  ;  more  especially  in 
Spain,  where  the  distinctions  of  society  were  rigidly  main- 
tained, and  where  Art,  justly  considered  as  a  liberal  pursuit, 
was  often  followed  by  persons  of  ancient  blood,  and  some- 
times brought  high  rewards  and  honour. 

Philip,  whatever  his  defects  as  a  monarch,  had  a  just 
appreciation  of  merit;  and  having  ascertained  that  it  existed 
in  the  poor  Mestizo,  determined  that  the  lowliness  of  its 
station  should  not  present  obstacles  to  its  recognition  and 
reward.  He  condescended  to  examine  other  paintings  which 
the  Mestizo  had  privily  executed,  praised  what  he  had  done, 


104  TRESSILIAN. 

and  voluntarily  promised  to  use  his  best  endeavours  to  obtain 
from  Velasquez  permission  for  him  henceforth  openly  to 
pursue  that  art  in  which,  untaught  except  by  Genius  and 
Industry — those  wonder-workers  who,  combined,  can  do  any 
and  every  thing — he  had  already  accomplished  so  much. 

The  morrow  came.  By  special  invitation  from  the  King, 
the  studio  of  Velasquez  was  crowded  with  nobles  of  the 
highest  rank.  Presently  the  Monarch  entered,  leaning  on 
the  Painter's  shoulder — a  familiarity  which  he  loved  to 
exhibit.  There  was  a  pause,  after  Philip  had  taken  his  seat, 
and  then  he  said — 

"  Three-and-twenty  years  ago  I  first  sat  for  my  portrait  to 
Velasquez.  It  was  in  the  house  of  my  minister,  the  Count- 
Duke  d'Olivarez,  nor,  until  then,  had  Painter  traced  to  my 
satisfaction,  these  features  and  this  form.  I  think,  my  Velas- 
quez, I  am  right  as  to  the  time  ?" 

"  The  portrait,"  responded  the  Painter,  "  bears  on  it  the 
date  of  August  30,  1623,  for  I  was  proud  to  record  upon  it, 
visible  to  all  men,  the  very  day  on  which  I  completed  a  work 
■which  had  the  good  fortune  to  please  my  sovereign." 

"I  intimated  to  Velasquez,  then,"  continued  the  King 
(who,  it  may  be  observed,  followed  the  custom  of  his  country 
in  not  speaking  of  himself  in  the  plural  number,  like 
Editors  and  other  potentates*),  "  that  thenceforth,  none  other 
but  himself  should  paint  my  portrait.  He  can  answer  how  I 
have  kept  my  promise.  He  has  since  worthily  laboured  for 
me,  through  a  long  series  of  years,  not  only  to  enrich  my 
palaces  with  his  works,  but  to  elevate  the  Spanish  name,  by 
the  execution  of  what  may  challenge  competition  Avith  the 
best  ItaUan  and  Flemish  painters.     lie  has  devoted  himself 


♦  Royal  documents  in  Spain  commence  with  "  I,  the  King :"— in  every  other 
European  SoTereignty,  the  editorial  "  We,"  U  used. 


VELASQUEZ      AND      HIS      MESTIZO.  105 

at  mj  request,  to  long  and  laborious  journeyings  to  foreign 
countries,  to  procure  for  me  works  of  art  worthy  of  embellish- 
ing my  capital  and  my  palaces,  while  they  aflord  examples  to 
the  native  talent  of  this  my  Spain.  A  few  appointments 
about  my  person  have  gratified  myself  more  than  Velasquez, 
for  they  gave  me,  to  share  my  secret  hours  of  retirement,  one 
■who  is  qualified  by  education,  intellect,  and  address,  to  be  the 
companion  of  Princes.  Yesterday  I  received  from  Velasquez 
a  painting,  into  which,  by  my  desire,  he  has  introduced  a 
portrait  of  himself.  To-day,  I  exhibit  it  here,  with  an  addi- 
tion, which  my  own  unskilled  hand  has  ventured  to  intro- 
duce." 

At  a  signal  from  the  King,  the  curtain  which  concealed 
the  picture  was  here  withdrawn,  and  when  Velasquez  saw  what 
the  King  had  painted  in,  he  bent  his  knee  to  the  earth,  and 
gratefully  kissed  the  hand  which  had  thus  executed  a  com- 
pliment, as  graceful  as  Royalty  ever  honoured  itself  with  by 
bestowinsr  on  Genius. 

"  No  thanks  !"  exclaimed  the  King.  "  You  will  please  to 
observe,"  ho  added,  addressing  the  Marquis  da  Tabara,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Order,  "  that  Don  Diego  Rodriguez  da  Silvay 
Velasquez  has  already  been  invested,  on  this  canvas,  with  the 
red  Cross  of  Santiago.  No  need  for  report  on  his  qualifica- 
tions. For  them,  and  for  his  noble  blood,  and  nobler  worth, 
the  King  himself  does  vouch.  Let  his  installation  take  place, 
in  the  Church  of  the  Carbonera,  on  the  feast  of  San  Pros- 
pero,  the  birth-day  of  my  son,  the  Prince  of  Asturias.  Let 
the  Marquis  de  Malpica,  as  Commendador  of  the  Order, 
officiate  as  sponsor ;  Don  Caspar  Perez  de  Guzman,  and  my 
cousin,  the  Duque  de  Medina  Sidonia,  will  be  honoured  by 
placing  the  insignia  upon  the  new  Knight." 

Once  more  the  King  and  the  Painter  were  alone — save  the 
humble  presence  of  Juan,  the  Mestizo. 

5* 


106  TRES8ILIAN. 

"  You  tliink,  mj^  Velasquez,"  said  the  King,  "  that  the 
portrait  is  not  damaged  by  my  touch  ?  The  chain  which  I 
have  there  placed  round  your  neck  is  not  precisely  of  the 
pattern  usually  worn  by  the  Knights  of  Santiago.  But  I 
remembered  that  when  Duke  Frances  of  Modena  visited  our 
Madrid,  eighteen  years  ago,  you  painted  his  portrait,  and  he 
rewarded  you  with  a  gold  chain,  which  I  have  seen  you  wear 
on  gala  days,  until  some  ten  years  later,  when  it  was  laid 
aside  for  that  chain,  with  a  medal  of  himself,  which  Pope 
Innocent  the  Tenth  gave  you,  at  Rome,  for  having  made  a 
better  likeness  of  him  than  any  Italian  painter  had  produced. 
To  record  that  you  had  been  so  rewarded,  I  even  asked  your 
Mestizo  here  to  bring  me  the  Pope's  chain,  and,  as  you  see, 
have  introduced  it  into  your  portrait." 

"Never  was  Painter  so  exalted,"  said  Velasquez,  "as  I 
am  by  this  honour." 

"  I  well  believe,"  said  the  King,  "  that  never  before  has  the 
accolade  of  knighthood  been  conferred  by  a  touch  of  the 
pencil  instead  of  the  sword.  But  you  err  if  you  think  that 
never  before,  in  this  countrj^,  has  genius  been  duly  honoured. 
The  Emperor  Charles,  who  regarded  the  acquisition  of  a 
picture  by  Titian  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  the  conquest 
of  a  province,  created  him  a  Count  Palatine  of  the  Empire. 
My  grandfather,  Philip  the  Second,  raised  Tibaldi,  the  painter, 
to  the  rank  of  Marquis  in  the  Milanese  States,  by  the  title  of 
Valdelsa,  the  village  in  which  his  father  had  laboured  as  a 
mason.  To  Calderon,  the  dramatist,  and  Francesco  de 
Roxas,  the  poet,  have  I  already  given  the  Cross  of  Santiago. 
In  su(;h  cases,  tlie  honour  is  to  the  bestower,  not  the  receiver. 
I  should  think  ill  of  myself,  if,  loving  Art  as  I  do,  I  did  not 
honour  its  followers.  Know  you  not  that  from  the  good 
Dominican,  Juan  Bautista  Mayno — who  introduced  your 
friend   and   fellow-student,   Alonso   Cano,  to   my  notice — I 


VELASQUEZ      AND      HIS      MESTIZO.  107 

received  that  practical  knowledge  of  painting,  which  enabled 
me,  ere  the  cares  of  Royalty  fell  upon  my  brow,  to  exercise 
the  pencil  in  a  manner  which,  I  have  been  told,  might  have 
nmde  me  a  tolerable  artist,  if  the  heavier  cares  of  the  sceptre 
had  not  descended  to  me  ?  But  I  have  surprised  you  once  to 
day,  perhaps  I  can  do  so  a  second  time.  You  doubt? — Let 
your  Mestizo  turn  the  picture  opposite." 

It  was  done.  Velasquez  examined  the  painting  carefully, 
and  then  remarked,  "  If  it  were  the  work  of  any  rival  arlist, 
inethinks  I  should  have  cause  to  dread  the  rivalry.  Not 
because  your  Majesty  has  painted  this,  but  because  of  its 
intrinsic  worth,  do  I  give  this  painting  the  fullest  approval." 

"  No  matter  who  the  artist  ?  Suppose  it  had  been  painted 
by  one  of  my  servitors  ?" 

"Your  Majesty  compels  me  to  speak  the  truth.  I  must 
not  wrong  my  judgment.  Whoever  the  painter,  were  he 
lowest  servitor  in  the  meanest  ville  in  Spain,  is  worthy  to 
stand  before  princes.  If  my  own  Mestizo  there,  who  mixes 
my  colours,  had  done  this,  I  would  say  the  same." 

"  Learn,  then,"  said  the  King,  "  that  your  Mestizo  is  the 
Painter.  See,  he  kneels  at  your  feet.  Velasquez,  you  must 
pardon,  for  the  success,  the  presumption  which  has  tempted 
him  into  the  path  you  have  so  worthily  pursued." 

"  Such  a  Painter  as  this,"  said  Velasquez,  earnestly,  "  ought 
not  to  remain  a  Slave." 

The  King  smiled  his  approval,  and  Juan  de  Pareja,  kissing 
his  hand,  arose  a  freed  man.  He  had  knelt,  a  slave  ;  he  now 
stood  erect  in  the  dignity  of  freedom.  Without  any  loss  of 
time,  Velasquez  executed  a  formal  deed  of  manumission,  and 
told  him  he  was  now  at  liberty  to  pursue  his  own  course. 
lie  solicited,  as  a  boon,  the  privilege  of  continuing  his 
voluntary  services  to  Velasquez,  and  (lightly  tasked,  how- 
ever), did  so  continue  them  for  four  years  longer,  until  the 


108  TRESS  ILI  AN. 

death  of  liis  master,  in  1060.  Nor  did  liis  connection  with  the 
family  of  liis  beneftictor  cease  even  then,  for  he  continued  in 
the  service  of  his  daughter,  married  to  Mazo  Martinez,  who 
succeeded  Velasquez  as  Painter  in  ordinary  to  the  King. 

In  the  history  of  Spanish  Art,  the  name  of  Juan  de  Pareja, 
the  Mestizo,  is  honourably  recorded.  The  pencil  of  Velasquez 
has  preserved  his  features.  His  own  works,  and  the  romantic 
circumstances  of  his  story  have  caused  him  to  be  remem- 
bered. These  works,  whether  in  portraiture  or  composition, 
are  now  very  few,  exhibiting,  as  might  be  expected,  a  close 
and  successful  resemblance,  in  colouring  and  handling,  to 
those  of  his  great  master.  Some  of  his  later  portraits,  are 
spoken  of  as  possessing  greater  freedom  than  he  at  first 
displayed — the  public  exercise  of  his  pencil  probably  gave 
him  confidence  in  his  own  powers — and  have  been  sometimes 
taken,  from  their  force  and  boldness  of  touch,  for  the  works 
of  Velasquez.     He  died  fourteen  years  after  his  manumission. 

Memorable  in  the  annals  of  Art  was  the  day  of  the  double 
adventure,  which  tradition  has  preserved,  undoubted  in  its 
incidents,  to  these  later  and  less  romantic  times.  On  that 
day  Velasquez  was  created  Knight  of  Santiago,  and  Juan  de 
Pareja,  the  Mestizo,  obtained  his  freedom,  by  means  of  his 
ability  as  a  Painter. 


1 


SEBAS*riAN      GOMEZ.  109 

"Tlianks,"  Raid  Tressilian,  "for  a  true  story,  from  the 
history  of  Art  in  Spain." 

"  Do  you  not  recollect,"  said  Lady  Tressilian,  "  that  when 
we  were  at  Seville,  we  were  shown  pictures  executed  by  a 
Mulatto?  I  think  they  told  us  that  he  had  been  in  the 
service  of  Murillo  and  not  of  Velasquez." 

"You  are  quite  correct  in  your  recollection,  my  dear," 
answered  Sir  Julian.  "At  Madrid  we  saw  The  Calling  of  St. 
Matthew,  by  Pareja,  the  emancipated  Mestizo  of  the  great 
Velasquez.  In  Seville,  we  saw  some  of  the  woiks  and  heard 
the  story  of  Sebastian  Gomez,  the  Mulatto  slave  of  Murillo.  He 
slept  in  his  master's  studio,  and  having  taught  himself  how  to 
paint,  used  to  practice  secretly  at  night.  Once,  having  taken  up 
the  pencil  to  touch  a  picture  of  the  Virgin  which  his  master 
had  sketched  and  left  upon  the  easel,  he  was  led  to  forget  that 
it  was  the  design  of  another,  and  continued  to  paint,  heedless 
of  the  daylight  having  dispersed  the  shades  of  night,  and 
equally  unconscious  that  Murillo  had  entered  the  studio,  with 
some  of  his  pupils,  Murillo  motioned  them  into  silence,  and 
remained  for  some  time,  a  spectator  of  the  Mulatto's  labours. 
At  length,  he  broke  silence,  to  the  dismay  of  the  Mulatto, 
who  trembled  for  the  consequences  of  his  temerity.  Murillo 
took  him  by  the  hand,  and  said,  '  He  who  can  so  use  my 
colours  must  no  longer  continue  to  grind  them.  Be  a  freed 
man  from  this  hour.  Continue  with  me — as  a  pupil.  I  am, 
indeed  fortunate,  for  I  have  made  not  only  pictures,  but  a 
Painter.'  Henceforth,  Gomez  pursued  the  practice  of  the  Art, 
and  with  such  success,  that  he  has  left  a  name  as  one  of  the 
great  Paintei-s  of  Spain.  At  Seville,  several  of  his  works  are 
shown, — they  have  much  of  the  rich  harmony  of  colouring 
which  distinsjuish  those  of  Murillo." 

•'  It  is  singular,"  said  Crayon,  "  that  Velasquez  and  Murillo, 
flourishing  at  the  same  time,  should  each  have  had  a  mulatto 


110  TRESSILIAN. 

witli  sufficient  genius  to  advance  into  the  rank  of  Painters. 
But  there  are  many  curious  coincidences  in  Art.  The  well- 
known  anecdote  of  Quintin  Matsys,  the  blacksmith  of  Ant- 
werp, who,  for  love  of  an  artist's  daughter,  himself  became  a 
painter,  was  anticipated,  more  than  a  century  earlier,  by  the 
romantic  story  of  Antonio  Solario  (commonly  called  Lo  Zin- 
garo,  or  the  Tinman  of  Xaples),  who,  after  ten  years'  proba- 
tion, achieved  so  much  success  as  to  obtain  the  hand  Claudia, 
daughter  of  Colantonio  del  Fiore,  a  noble,  who  was  himself 
an  artist,  and  had  vowed  that  she  should  wed  none  but  a 
Painter  equal  to  himself.  So  in  Spain,  Francisco  de  Ribalta, 
born  twenty  years  after  Quintin  Matsys  had  died,  became 
enamoured  of  the  daughter  of  a  Painter  at  Valencia.  The 
father  positively  refused  to  accept,  as  a  son-in-law,  one  so 
young  and  inexperienced.  The  maiden  decided  to  wait. 
Ribalta  went  to  Italy  for  four  years,  and  during  that  time, 
carefully  formed  his  style  on  that  of  Raphael  and  the  Carracci. 
On  his  return  he  found  the  lady  as  faithful  as  he  had  hoped. 
On  the  easel,  at  her  father's,  was  an  unfinished  picture — 
Ribalta  took  up  the  pencil  and  rapidly  finished  it.  The  father, 
returning,  was  so  delighted  with  the  painting,  that  he  declared 
the  artist,  whoever  he  might  be,  and  not  that  stupid  Ribalta, 
should  wed  his  daughter.  Then  came  the  discovery,  followed 
by  the  nuptials,  and  to  this  hour,  Ribalta  ranks  among  the 
foremost  of  the  painters  of  Valencia,  and  memorable  also,  as 
the  instructor  of  the  famous  Spagnoletto.  Thus,  Italy,  Spain, 
and  the  Low  Countries,  have  each  an  authentic  anecdote  of  a 
I'ainter  made  great  under  the  impulse  of  Love !  It  would 
seem  that  Art,  like  Life,  has  strange  coincidences." 

"  Like  effects  springing  from  like  causes,"  said  Tressilian. 
"  It  is  a  remarkable  thing,  and  what  cannot  be  said  of  some 
countries  which  boast  themselves  as  much  more  civilized,  th£.t 
in  Spain,  under  five  successive  monarchs,  during  a  period  of 


THE      FINE      ARTS      IN      SPAIN.  Ill 

m 

nearly  two  centuries,  the  fine  Arts  should  have  been 
constantly  and  munificently  cared  for.  There  was  the 
Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth  (so  familiar  to  us  through  his 
briUiant  historian,  Robertson),  encouraging  the  painters, 
sculptors,  and  architects  of  Spain — boasting  of  the  friend- 
ship of  the  great  Titian — honouring  him  with  titles  of 
nobility — enriching  him  with  liberal  gifts  and  pensions — 
picking  up  his  pencil,  with  the  graceful  compliment  that 
Titian  was  worthy  to  be  served  by  Ctesar — rebuking  his 
courtiers,  who  thought  he  was  too  familiar  with  the  painter, 
by  saying  there  were  many  princes  and  only  one  Titian — ■ 
and  declaring  that  no  other  hand  should  draw  his  portrait 
since  be  had  thrice  received  immortality  from  the  pencil  of 
that  artist.  There  was  his  son  and  successor,  Philip  the 
Second,  so  well  remembered  in  England  as  the  husband  of 
Mary  Tudor,  and  the  sender  forth  of  that  Armada  which, 
■vrith  vain  anticipation,  he  had  called  "The  Invincible." 
Although  morose  and  gloomy  as  a  monarch  and  a  man,  he 
delighted  to  manifest  kindly  feeling  towards  his  artists ;  ho 
also  was  the  friend  of  Titian — was  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  Antonio  More  —  lavished  regard  and  wealth  upon 
Herrara,  the  builder  of  his  palace  of  the  Escurial,  and 
encouraged  and  rewarded  the  genius  of  Morales,  Sanchez 
Coello,  El  Mudo  (who  has  been  called  the  Spanish  Titian), 
and  El  Greco,  who,  as  painter,  sculptor,  and  architect,  has  a 
reputation  which  will  not  perish.  So,  also,  though  with 
meaner  capacity,  did  the  Third  Philip  encourage  art  and  its 
professors.  He  appreciated  Don  Quixote,  though  he  did  not 
think  of  inquiring  whether  Cervantes  was  not  in  poverty. 
"When  a  fine  gallery  of  paintings,  at  the  palace  of  the  Prado, 
in  Madrid,  was  destroyed  by  fire,  he  eagerly  exclaimed, 
'  Have  they  saved  the  Antiope  of  Titian  ?  we  may  replace 
other  pictures,  but  the  loss  of  that  Titian  cannot  be  repaired.' 


112  TRESSILIAN. 

Then  came  the  golden  age  of  Art  in  Spain,  under  Philip  IV., 
his  affectionate  regard  for  Velasquez  commencing  when  the 
monarch  was  only  eighteen  and  the  painter  four-and-twenty ; 
his  munificent  expenditure  in  the  importation  of  works  of 
Art  from  Italy  and  Flanders — his  kindness  to  Rubens — his 
liberality  to  De  Zurbaran,  Alfonso  Cano,  Murillo,  and  the 
younger  Herrara,  with  a  continued  and  liberal  encouragement 
of  Art  during  a  reign  of  nearly  forty-five  years.  Even  Charles 
II,,  the  last  of  the  Spanish  kings  of  the  Austrian  line,  would 
delight  in  his  pictures  when  nothing  else  could  give  pleasure 
to  his  limited  capacity.  In  his  reign,  though  Art  had 
declined,  it  still  could  show  some  noble  followers,  and  the 
works  of  Carreno,  Palomino,  and  Alfaro,  yet  challenge  admi- 
ration in  the  galleries  of  Spain." 

"  You  speak  of  patronage,"  said  Butler ;  "  what  is  called  '  a 
clear  stage  and  no  favour,'  appears  to  me  to  be  the  best 
mode  of  giving  encouragement  to  Art.  Any  attempt  to 
patronize  it  is  certain  to  lower  it" 

"That,"  said  Crayon,  "depends  on  what  we  may  term 
patronage.  For  my  own  part,  as  an  artist,  I  am  not  ambi- 
tious, as  some  men  are,  to  measure  my  merit  by  the  number 
and  quality  of  the  visitors  to  my  studio,  nor  yet  by  the 
quantity  of  pictures  I  may  sell  in  the  year,  nor  the  gross 
amount  I  may  receive  for  them.  To  have  a  work  of  mine  in 
the  collection  of  a  man  of  recognized  knowledge  of  Art,  and 
feeling  for  its  beauties  and  difficulties,  would  of  itself  be  a 
diploma  of  merit,  of  more  value  than  if  I  had  received  a 
large  sum  for  it  from  some  one  who  could  not  decide  for 
himself  whether  it  were  good  or  bad,  and  had  merely  bought 
it  because  the  painter  happened  to  have  a  name." 

"  All  patronage,"  said  Butler,  "  is  worse  than  useless,  which 
does  not  elevate  the  artist.  So,  too,  with  Literature ;  it  is  not 
the  mere  fact  of  a  man's  work  selling  largely,  to  his  great 


PATRONAGE.  113 

gain  (a  consummation,  devoutly  to  be  wished  for  by  authors, 
vhich  often  is  the  result  of  judicious  management  by  their 
publishers),  that  assures  him  of  the  success  he  covets,  but  the 
knowledofe  that  minds  well  calculated  to  be  critical,  acknow- 
ledge  that  he  has  done  well.  Are  we  not  becoming  too 
critical  and  didactic  ?  Will  you  allow  me  to  end  this  disqui- 
sition, by  relating  an  incident  in  which,  though  slightly,  the 
shepherd-poet  of  Scotland,  bore  some  little  part  ?" 

Then  were  related  to  us  the  marvellous   adventures  of 
Andrew  Horner. 


114  TRESSILIAN. 


A    KIGHT    WITH    BUKiq^S. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  has  recorded  that,  when  he  was  a  lad 
of  fifteen,  he  saw  Burns.  "  I  may  truly  say  Virgilium  vidi 
tantum^''  are  his  own  words.  Much  more  fortunate  was 
Andrew  Horner,  who  spent  an  evening  in  the  poet's  company, 
and — must  I  tell  it  ? — there  and  then  imbibed  so  much  liquid, 
rather  stronger  than  spring-water,  that  his  head  ached  sorely 
the  next  morning. 

About  sixty  years  ago,  or  thereabouts,  there  flourished  a 
worthy,  in  the  city  of  Carlisle  who — bless  the  mark! — was 
smitten  with  the  desire  of  fame ;  and,  not  content  with  tha 
dim  and  distant  prospect  of  obtaining  it  by  his  humble  occu- 
pation as  a  vendor  of  linen,  adventurously  fixed  his  glance 
upon  no  less  a  mark  than  that  pedestal  whereon,  with  a 
pencil  of  light.  Renown  has  inscribed  the  names  of  most 
illustrious  men. 

Andrew  Horner  was  the  name  of  this  wight  who  (in  his 
own  estimation)  was  worthy  to  break  a  lance  with  those 
proud  heirs  of  fume  who  have  gained  the  world's  admiration. 
He  had  reached  the  sage  age  of  half  a  century,  ere  he  had 
fully  made  up  his  mind  in  what  manner  he  should  astonish 
the  public.  He  determined,  finally,  to  "  witch  the  world 
with  noble" — not  horsemanship,  but  rhymes.  Like  many 
men  before,  in,  and  since  his  day,  he  mistook  the  aspiration 
for  the  ability — the  desire  for  the  power  to  write.  Thus  do 
we  constantly  see  practical  illustrations  of  the  frog  trying  to 


A      NIGHT      WITH      BURNS.  115 

swell  to  the  expansive  size  of  the  lordly  bison,  and  thus  have  we 
been  afflicted  with  manifold  imitations  of  the  better  brethren 
of  the  quill,  in  which,  like  Chinese  artists,  the  copyists  give 
every  defect  witb  remarkable  fidelity,  but  invariably  contrive 
not  to  convey  the  grace,  the  expression,  and  the  freshness 
■which  breathe  life  and  beauty  into  the  bright  originals. 

Sundry  quires  of  what  he  courteously  and  complacently 
called  poetry,  were  written  by  Mr.  Ilorner.  These  he  would 
read  to  such  of  his  customers  as  could  be  prevailed  upon  to 
listen.  When  he  lacked  this  "  audience  fit  though  few,"  he 
■was  wont  to  spout  his  effusions  aloud,  ore  rotundo,  for  his 
own  edification ;  and  if  he  was  in  a  particularly  placid  and 
pleasant  vein,  he  would  send  for  a  neighhour,  who  had 
brightened  his  intellect  by  making  the  theatrical  tour  of 
England  (as  candle-snufier  and  bill-sticker  for  sundry  strolling 
companies)  and  bribe  him,  with  a  noggin  of  whisky,  or  a  gill 
of  ale,  to  listen  to  the  mellifluous  lines  ■which  their  author 
monotonously  poured  out — like  a  child  pouring  a  thin  stream 
of  muddy  water  into  a  bottomless  vessel.  Andrew  Horner's 
amour  propre  would  be  gratified,  ever  and  anon  (between 
gulps),  with  such  interjectional  remarks,  as  "  Gude — vera 
gude  !"  "  Keal  fine  rhymes !"  "  Excellent !  ma  faith,  Shak- 
spere  ne'er  wrot  sic  po'tiy  as  that !"  But  by  the  time  the 
fluids  were  disposed  of,  the  listener  usually  ■was  in  a  calm  sleep. 
"Whatever  other  merits  they  possessed,  it  was  pretty  obvious 
that  Mr.  Andrew  Homer's  rhymes  were  of  a  composing 
nature  : — the  art  of  writing  such  has  not  died  with  him. 

The  proverb  which  tolls  us  that  a  prophet  has  no  honour 
in  his  own  country,  is  equally  true  when  applied  to  poets. 
In  the  city  of  Carlisle  it  has  long  been  rather  a  recommenda- 
tion than  otherwise  for  a  man  to  be  somewhat  of  a  dullard. 
The  citizens  were  as  blind  to  literary  merit  in  1785,  as  they 
are  now,  or  as  they  have  been  in  any  year  of  grace  sinco 


116  TRESSILIAN. 

Paley,  by  residing  among  them,  cast  too  mucli  light  upon  their 
mental  obscurity.  Is  it  wonderful,  then,  that  Andrew  Hor- 
ner shared  the  common  doom  ?  that  he  gained,  at  best,  the 
dubious  distinction  of  beino;  sneered  at  as  a  half-witted 
rhymester,  or  positively  condemned  for  the  folly  of  neglecting 
his  business  for  his  verses  ? 

How  could  a  soul  like  his  be  "  cabined,  cribbed,  confined," 
in  the  dull  and  dirty  city  of  Carhsle  ?  "VMiat  more  natural 
than  that 

"Aspiring  upwards — like  a  star," 

it  should  seek  a  more  extended  range,  a  wider  sphere  of 
action  ?  What  more  obvious  than  this  should  be  gained  by 
the  then  important  and  rare,  but  now  common  step — publica- 
tion? 

Andrew  Horner  read  his  own  poems  over  for  the  thou- 
sandth time — worked  himself,  once  more,  and  for  ever,  out 
of  his  linoferino:  doubts,  and  into  the  heart  of  his  old  convic- 
tion  (that  they  were  truly  exquisite),  and  then  magnanimously 
resolved  to  print  them. 

It  is-  faithfully  recorded,  in  one  of  the  gossiping  memoirs  of 
the  time,  that  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France  once  entered  a 
small  town,  and  was  met  at  the  gate  by  the  Mayor  and  Cor- 
poration, with  a  right  loyal  address — that  is,  an  address  in 
which  the  reigning  monarch  is  told,  even  as  his  predecessors 
were  told,  in  terms  of  adulation,  that  he  is  all  but  a  God  upon 
earth.  "  May  it  please  your  most  august  and  sacred  Majesty," 
added  the  chief  representative  of  municipal  wisdom,  "we 
should  have  saluted  you  with  cannon,  according  to  ancient 
custom,  but  for  seventeen  reasons ;  the  first,  your  Majesty,  is, 

we  have   not  got   any  cannon   ."     "That  will   do," 

hastily  interrupted  the  impatient  King,  as  he  gave  spur  and 
rein  to  his  charger,  "  I  excuse  the  remaining  sixteen  reasons." 


A     NIGHT     WITH     BURNS.  117 

In  like  manner  could  be  enumerated  a  great  variety  of 
circumstances  which  unfortunately  prevented  Andrew  Horner 
hanng  his  book  printed  at  Carlisle.  The  first  was,  that  in 
the  year  1785,  there  actually  was  not  a  printing  office  in  that 
ancient  city.  Perhaps,  like  the  French  king,  you  will  excuse 
all  the  other  reasons. 

The  nearest  place,  at  that  time  where  he  could  have  his 
book  creditably  brought  out,  was  the  good  city  of  Glasgow — 
then,  as  now,  famous  for  the  punch-making  and  punch-bibbing 
powers  of  its  Avorthy  inhabitants. 

To  Glasgow,  therefore,  Andrew  went.  There  he  speedily 
learned  that  the  expense  of  printing  and  publishing  was  no 
trifle ;  but  then,  what  was  a  little  money — nay,  what  was  a 
great  deal  of  it,  in  the  balance  against  immortal  fame ! 
Although  not  actually  a  Scot  by  birth.  Homer  was  "  too  far 
north  "  to  close  any  bargain  on  the  instant  with  the  Glasgow 
bibliopole,  but  left  it  pending,  or  as  he  would  have  said, 
"hanoriusr  betwixt  and  between."  His  mind  was  too 
enlarged  to  bo  made  up  at  a  moment's  notice — like  a  travel- 
ling bag  or  prescription.  He  had  to  consider,  on  his  way 
back  to  Carlisle,  what  number  of  copies  it  would  be  proper 
to  print.  On  the  moderate  calculation  that  there  certainly 
must  be  at  least  one  lover  of  poetry  in  every  parish  in  England 
and  Scotland  (to  say  nothing  of  the  Kingdom  of  Ireland  and 
the  town  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed),  his  original  idea  was  for  a 
small  impression  of — ten  thousand  copies.  The  more  prudent 
bookseller  recommended  the  maximum  to  be  a  paltiy  two 
hundred  and  fiftv ;  and  when  Andrew  had  the  estimates  before 
hi;a,  he  was  fain  to  confess  that  it  might  be  as  well  perhaps, 
not  to  venture  upon  tliousands  until  the  sale  of  hundreds  had 
fui-nished  the  means  of  paying  expenses. 

Andrew  Horner,  like  Barney  Riordan,  the  Navigator,  when 
he  met  the  American  liner  far  out  at  sea — was  "  homeward 


118  TRESSILIAN. 

bound "  when  he  came  to  the  principal  hostelrie  in  the 
ancient  town  of  Ajt  ;  not  very  far  from  which  is  Mossgiel, 
the  farm  held  by  Robert  Burns  at  the  date  of  this  true  story, 
and  where,  if  he  lost  some  money,  the  world  gained  the  fine 
poetry  which — in  a  continuous,  deep,  yet  flashing  stream — 
welled  out  from  his  heart,  during  his  residence  there. 

It  never  was  ascertained  why  Mr.  Andrew  Horner  took 
such  a  detour  to  the  west  as  Ayr,  some  thirty  miles  out  of  the 
direct  road  from  Glasgow  to  Carlisle ;  but  poets  have  odd 
fancies  sometimes,  and  poetasters,  having  the  organ  of  imita- 
tion very  strong,  affect  to  be  discursive,  in  the  hope  that 
Oddity  (copper-gilt),  may  be  mistaken  for  the  sterling  metal 
of  Originality. 

It  was  a  fine  evening  in  September,  1785,  when  the 
redoubtable  Andrew  Horner  entered  the  common  room  of 
the  Inn  at  Ayr.  Some  half-dozen  ranting,  roaring,  dashing 
young  fellows — fond  of  their  glass  and  joke — were  sitting 
down  to  dinner  as  he  entered,  exactly  in  the  nick  of  time. 
Room  was  immediately  made  for  him.  The  oldest  occupant 
in  the  room  took  the  chair,  according  to  Inn-usage  within 
the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  and,  by  the  contrary 
rule,  Andrew  Horner  was  made  Vice-president,  by  virtue  of 
his  being  the  most  recent  arrivah 

It  may  be  taken  for  granted,  that  what  Mr.  Carlyle,  the 
able  mannerist,  would  call  "the  remarkablest  justice,"  was 
executed  upon  all  the  viands.  The  cloth  being  removed,  the 
Chairman  gave  "  the  King."  It  was  Andrew's  turn  next ; 
and  in  the  customary  routine,  he  should  have  given  "  the  Queen 
and  Royal  Family ;"  but,  much  to  the  surprise  and  amaze- 
ment of  the  company,  he  started  on  his  legs,  made  a  vehe- 
ment speech,  "de  omnibus  rebus"  (which,  being  interpreted, 
does  not  mean  a  rebus  in  an  omnibus,  as  a  blue-stockijig  once 
translated  it) — branching  off"  to  London  politics  and  Cum- 


A      KIGHX      WITH      BURNS.  119 

berland  bacon — glancing  at  William  Pitt,  the  boy-Minister 
of  that  day,  and  Lord  Thurlow's  gracious  manner — gliding 
into  a  dissertation  upon  salmon-fishing,  and  Irish  linen ;  and, 
by  a  nice  gradation,  winding  up  with  a  lengthy  eulogy  of  the 
British  Poets,  with  a  modest  allusion  to  his  own  metrical 
merits.  So  intent  was  he  on  the  subject,  that  he  plumped 
down  into  his  chair,  at  the  end,  without  having  proposed  any 
toast  whatever. 

The  wit  who  presided  had  a  very  particular  and  pleasant 
penchant  for  fun.  Therefore,  no  sooner  had  Horner  resumed 
his  seat,  than,  with  a  gravity  of  manner  which  deceived  no 
one  btit  the  self-satisfied  and  unconscious  butt,  he  intimated  to 
the  company  that  it  would  be  no  more  than  decorous  to  drink 
the  health  of  the  eminent  literary  character,  whose  society 
they  were  then,  fortunately  and  fortuitously,  enjoying.  After 
a  few  more  compliments,  tlie  hyperbole  of  which  was  exqui- 
sitely ludicrous,  he  proposed  "  the  Poets  of  Great  Britain, 
and  Mr.  Uorner,  their  worthy  representative." 

Such  a  toast  could  only  be  drank  "  with  all  the  honours " 
— an  infliction  which  has  invariably  made  me  envy  a  deaf 
man.  Horner,  of  course,  responded,  a.s  best  he  could.  His 
speech  would  have  been  very  Ciceronian,  no  doubt,  but  that 
the  orator  had  the  misfortune  to  stammer.  However,  he 
stuttered  out  his  thanks — the  unusual  excitement  havino: 
much  augmented  his  natural  infirmity — and,  though  he  said 
little,  that  little,  owing  to  his  defective  utterance,  was  like  a 
traveller  to  far  climes — it  went  a  great  way. 

So  copiously  was  he  fed  with  flattery  and  punch,  that,  ere 
the  second  bowl  of  the  latter  was  exhausted,  Andrew  Horner 
had  mounted  on  a  table  (by  special  desire),  and,  with  great 
emphasis,  read  for  his  new  friends  sundry  extracts,  from  what 
be  ever  loved  to  call  his  "  poetic  poems."  So  much  mock 
applause  followed  this  exhibition,  that,  more  than  ever  did  he 
believe  that  he  was  predestined  to  revive  song  in  the  land. 


120  TRESSILIAN. 

f 

To  carry  on  the  joke  yet  further,  and  fool  him  to  the  top 
of  his  bent,  a  critical  dispute  was  commenced,  as  to  the 
relative  merits  of  each  poem  which  the  company  had  heard. 
At  last,  one  of  the  gay  companions  ventured  to  hint,  with  a 
show  of  independence,  that  their  guest  might  not  be  such  a 
very  mighty  bard  as  they  imagined.  Ilorner's  mettle  was  up 
immediately,  and  he  defended  himself,  with  rather  more 
warmth  than  modesty.  His  opponent  then  affected  to  become 
yet  more  critical,  and  fully  aroused  Andrew's  indignation 
by  exclaiming,  "  tut,  mon !  there's  a  lad  near  by  wha  wud 
mak  maire  pomes  in  ae  day  than  yoursel'  cud  propose,  as  ye 
ca'  it,  in  a  month  o'  Sundays !" 

Extremely  indignant  at  this  imputation  on  his  hardship, 
Andrew  Horner  rashly  backed  himself  against  the  field.  A 
wager  was  immediately  offered,  taken,  and  booked,  as  to  the 
result  of  a  trial  of  poetic  skill  between  Andrew  Horner  and 
the  "  lad  near  by,"  who  was  ^wt  forward  as  his  opponent.  It 
was  resolved  to  bring  the  matter  to  a  conclusion  on  that 
night,  if  possible.  It  may  be  confessed — but  this,  of  course, 
is  merely  hinted  in  the  most  "  private  and  confidential "  man- 
ner imaginable — that,  as  Andrew  had  hastily  made  the 
bet,  and  as  speedily  repented  having  done  so,  his  forlorn  hope 
lay  in  the  fancied  impossibility  of  meeting  his  poetic  oppo- 
nent that  evening,  as  it  was  now  getting  late.  His  finn 
intention  was  to  quit  Ayr  at  dawn  of  day,  and  thus  literally 
gallop  out  of  the  responsibility  he  had  rashly  incurred. 

Horner's  companions  knew — what,  alas  !  he  did  not — that 
the  Ayr  Freemasons  held  their  monthly  sitting  that  night, 
and  that  the  young  poet  whom  they  sought,  was  then  actually 
in  the  house,  "in  lodge"  with  that  goodlj*  fraternity — he 
being  one  of  the  brethren  of  the  mystic  tie.  He  was  called 
out,  briefly  informed  of  the  ludicrous  circumstances  of  the 
case,  and  readily  persuaded  to  enter  the  lists  against  the 
Carlisle  bardling. 


A     NIGHT     WITH     BURNS.  121 

The  stranger-poet  entered  the  room,  and  even  Andrew 
Horner  could  see,  at  a  glance,  that  he  was  no  common  man. 
At  that  time,  his  age  was  about  some  six-and-twenty  years. 
His  form  was  vigorous,  rather  than  robust,  lie  was  well- 
made,  and  very  strongly  set  together.  His  height  was  rather 
above  the  middle  size ;  but  a  slight  stoop  of  the  neck,  such 
as  may  frequently  be  noticed  in  men  who  follow  the  plough 
(and  in  Scotland,  at  that  time,  few  farmers  were  above  doing 
this  part  of  their  own  business),  took  somewhat  from  his 
stature.  His  complexion  was  dark — swarthy  indeed ;  and 
his  features  might  be  called  massive  rather  than  coarse.  His 
face  was  any  thing  but  common ;  in  repose,  it  had  the  con- 
templative, melancholy  look,  which  so  often  indicates  the 
presence  of  high  imagination ;  and  when  he  spoke  (some- 
times with  a  sharp,  and  frequently  with  a  witty,  or  boldly 
eloquent  remark),  there  was  a  preponderance  of  intelligence 
— of  genius,  in  his  aspect,  and  its  expression  was  then  such 
as  Lavater  would  have  been  happy  to  behold.  His  broad 
pale  brow  was  shaded  by  dark  hair,  with  rather  a  curl  than  a 
wave.  His  voice  was  sweet,  yet  manly  and  sonorous.  But 
the  chief  charm  of  a  very  remarkable  countenance  lay  in  his 
eyes,  which  were  large,  dark,  and  beautifully  expressive. 
They  literally  seemed  to  glow  when  he  spoke,  with  feeling 
and  interest.  When  conversation  excited  him,  as  it  usually 
did,  they  kindled  up  until  they  appeared  to  all  but  lighten. 
Truly  did  a  poet  from  a  for  land,  who  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  spot  which  this  poet's  genius  had  hallowed,  say  that 

•'  A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

Tliat  could  not  fear,  and  would  not  bow, 
Were  written  in  liig  manly  eye. 
And  on  his  manly  brow." 

Such  was   the  young  man   now  introduced  to  Andrew 

6 


122  TRESSILIAN. 

Horner,  and  whose  very  glance  subdued  him,  amid  the  flush 
of  Bacchanalian  revelries,  into  a  feeling  of  his  own  insignifi- 
cance. It  might  have  been  as  much  by  accident  as  design 
that  the  stranger  was  not  inti'oduced  by  name.  At  that  time, 
indeed,  he  had  achieved  only  a  local  reputation.  Shortly 
after,  he  was  acknowledged  as  one  of  the  most  eminent  and 
brilliant  men  his  country  ever  produced.  How  did  that 
country  reward  his  genius  ?  To  this  hour  and  to  all  time, 
his  is 

"  A  name 
That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 
A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up." 

He  readily  joined  in  the  conversation,  and  by  no  means 
allowed  the  cup  to  pace  the  table,  "  like  a  cripple,"  to  borrow 
a  phrase  from  Maginn's  memorable  motto  to  the  Noctes. 
His  language,  if  sometimes  careless,  was  always  vigorous ; 
and  it  was  very  evident  that  whatever  his  education  might 
have  been,  his  mental  powers  were  great.  There  are  men 
who  achieve  greatness  without  the  dust  of  the  schools  having 
made  cobwebs  in  their  minds,  and  such  would  probably 
dwindle  into  common-place  persons  if  they  had  all  the 
advantages  of  education.  They  become  original  thinkers 
and  doers,  precisely  because  they  have  had  to  teach  them- 
selves. At  the  head  of  this  class  may  be  placed  this  Ayrshire 
poet. 

It  required  little  pressing  to  get  him  to  sing  several  songs 
of  his  own  composition ;  and  the  unfortunate  Andrew  Horner 
had  sense  enough  to  perceive  that  eitlier  for  stinging  satire, 
touching  pathos,  or  passionate  tenderness,  these  lyrics  were 
inimitable. 

After  sitting  with  them  for  some  time,  he  made  a  show  of 
retiring,  when  the  party  insisted  that  he  should  allow  tho 


A      NIGHT     WITH     BURNS.  123 

wager  to  be  decided  by  competing,  in  poetry,  witli  Andrew. 
With  well-acted  humility,  he  declined  what  he  called  "the 
certainty  of  defeat ;"  and  so  real  seemed  his  disinclination  for 
the  contest,  that  Andrew  Horner  fancied  he  was  actually 
afraid  to  enter  into  the  competition :  so  that,  urged  on  by 
the  insidious  advice  of  some  of  those  around  him,  he  asked 
the  stranger,  in  the  exulting  tone  and  manner  of  anticipated 
triumph,  to  have  one  trial,  at  least.  The  challenge  could  not, 
in  honour,  be  declined;  so,  with  apparent  and  well-acted 
doubt  of  its  result,  it  was  accepted. 

An  epigram  was  chosen,  because,  as  Andrew  internally 
argued,  it  is  the  shortest  of  all  poems.  In  compliment  to 
Lira,  the  company  resolved  that  his  own  merits  should  supply 
the  theme. 

lie  commenced — 


"  In  seventeen-hunder'  thretty-nine- 


and  he  paused.     He  then  said,  "Ye  see  I  was  born  in  1Y39, 
the  real  date  was  some  years  earlier,  so  I  mak'  that  the  com- 


mencemen." 


He  again  took  pen  in  hand,  folded  his  paper  with  a  con- 
scious air  of  authorship — squared  himself  at  the  table,  like 
one  who  considered  it  no  trifle  to  write  even  a  letter,  and 
slowly  put  down,  in  good  round-hand,  as  if  he  had  to  make 
out  a  bill  of  parcels,  the  hne — 

"  In  seventeen-hunder'  thretty-nlne," 

but  beyond  this,  after  repeated  attempts,  he  was  unable  to 
advance.  That  line  was  the  Rubicon  his  muse  could  not  pass. 
At  last,  (when  Andrew  Horner  reluctantly  admitted  that 
he  was  not  quite  in  the  vein),  pen,  ink,  and  paper  were  handed 
to  his  antagonist,  who  rejecting  them,  instantly  said — 


124 


TRESSILIAN. 


"  In  seventeen-hunder'  tliretty-nine, 
The  Deil  gat  stuff  to  mak'  a  swine, 

And  pit  it  in  a  corner; 
But  shortly  after,  changed  his  plan, 
Made  it  to  something  like  a  man, 
And  called  it — Andrew  Horner !" 


The  subject  of  this  stinging  stanza  bad  the  good  sense  not 
to  appear  offended  at  its  satire,  cheerfully  ordered  in  the  bowl 
of  punch  which  he  had  lost,  set  to  for  making  a  night  of  it 
"witli  his  new  friends,  and  thrust  his  poems  between  the  bars 
of  the  grate,  w  hen  "  the  sma'  hours  "  came  on  to  four  in  the 
morning.  As  his  poetic  rival  then  kindly  rolled  up  the 
hearth  rug,  into  a  quiet  corner  of  the  room,  to  serve  as  a  pillow 
for  the  vanquished  rhymster — then,  literally  a  carpet  knight 
— the  old  man,  better  pi'ophet  than  minstrel,  exclaimed, 
"  Hoot,  mon,  but  ye'll  be  a  gran'  poet  yet !" 

How  was  the  prediction  fulfilled  ? — A  kff  months  after, 
a  volume  of  poems  was  sent  forth  from  the  press  of  John 
Wilson,  of  Kilmarnock.  The  author  was  a  peasant  by  birth, 
a  poet  by  insj^i ration.  Coarse  Avas  the  paper  on  which  these 
poems  were  printed,  and  worn  was  the  type  :  but  the  poems 
themselves  were  of  that  rare  class  which  the  world  does  not 
"willingly  let  die.  The  fame  of  their  author  has  llown,  far  and 
wide,  throughout  the  world.  Pilgrims  have  come  from  distant 
countries  to  visit  the  cottage  in  which  he  was  born,  the 
scenes  in  which  he  lived,  the  "  banks  and  braes  "  of  which 
he  sang,  the  house  in  which  he  died,  the  churchyard  in  which 
he  was  buried.  His  genius  and  his  fate  have  become  at  once 
the  glory  and  the  reproach  of  Scotland.  That  author,  now 
with  world-wide  fame  was  the  same  who,  in  spoi-tive  mood 
has  given  memory  of  Andrew  Horner  through  the  "amber 
ciystaliization "  of  an  epigram.  His  own  name  was — 
lioREiiT  Burns. 


A      NIGHT     WITH      BURNS.  125 

"  My  father,"  continued  Butler,  "  was  one  of  the  company, 
before  whom  Andrew  Horner  entered  into  competition  with 
Robert  Burns,  and  has  often  i-epeated  to  me  the  epigram 
in  which,  by  the  amber  crystaHzation  I  spoke  of,  the  poet 
has  preserved  the  name  of  the  poetaster." 

"  Horner,"  observed  Tressilian,  "  apijears  to  have  belon.  ed 
to  that  class  of  men  who  complacently  think  their  own  bi  ief 
taper  better  and  brighter  than  the  meridian  blaze  which 
gathers  around  true  merit.  Living  in  a  contracted  circle, 
they  find  no  superior  within  its  narrow  bound.  The  vainest 
man  of  letters  I  ever  encountered  was  a  young  person  who 
did  the  criticism  in  an  obscure  provincial  newspaper.  On  the 
contrary,  when  in  company  with  the  '  better  brethren '  of 
the  pen,  what  has  most  struck  me  has  been  the  absence  of 
pretence.  Scott  and  Southey,  Irving  and  Lingard,  particularly 
attracted  me  by  the  simplicity  of  their  unafi'ected  manners." 

"  Though  it  makes  rather  against  my  own  order,"  said 
Crayon,  "  I  incline  to  the  belief  that  artists  are  more  vain  and 
eo-otistical  than  men  of  letters.  Take  the  author  of  a  clever 
and  popular  book,  for  example,  and  throw  him  into  society ; 
— you  will  rarely  find  him  anxious  to  enter  into  conversation 
uix)n  what  he  has  w-ritten — he  would  rather  get  out  of  the 
way  of  praise,  and  sink  the  author  if  he  can.  But  Painters 
and  Sculptors  will  talk  fluently  and  boldly  on  what  they 
have  done, — drawino-  vour  attention  to  the  manner  in  which 
they  met  and  conquered  such  and  such  difiiculties — pointing 
out  the  beauty  of  this  composition,  the  harmony  of  that 
colouring,  the  eflTect  of  the  gleam  of  light  here,  and  the  depth 
of  shadow  there, — not  hesitating  to  assert,  of  their  own  works, 
that  the  painting  has  all  the  beauty  of  the  Italian,  Spanish, 
or  Flemish  Schools,  or  that  the  sculpture  throws  every  chef 
d'oeuvre  of  antiquity  into  the  back  ground.  If  an  author 
ventured  to  hint  a  hundredth  parth  of  such  self-praise  for 


126  TRESSILIAN. 

any  thing  Le  liad  done,  he  would  be  voted  an  intolerable 
incarnation  of  vanity.  But  artists  often  do  it  and  are  not 
minded — musicians  are  painfully  egotistical,  and  he  who 
*  arranges '  the  music  for  a  ballet  or  a  vaudeville  often  thinks 
himself  as  brilliant  a  composer  as  Rossini  or  Mozart.  Singers 
also  possess,  and  sometimes  painfully  exhibit,  this  offensive 
self-esteem — one  good  thing  is,  they  have  as  much  emulation 
as  envy,  and  will  not  hesitate  to  praise  as  it  merits — so 
that  it  does  not  stand  in  actual  rivalry, — the  singing,  the 
music,  or  the  instrumentation  which  their  ear  and  taste  tells 
them  is  of  good  quality.  Actors  have  their  share  of  vanity — 
who  can  wonder  at  it — and  it  exists  in  an  inverse  ratio  with 
their  celebrity.  The  first  tragedy-man  or  the  leading  comedian 
may  be  comparatively  modest  in  his  own  self-estimate,  but 
every  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  cherishes  the  satisfactory 
idea  that  he  is  a  very  badly-used  man  in  net  being  allowed 
to  astonish  the  world  by  playing  Hamlet.  One  thing  I  have 
noticed  of  actors,  the  probable  result  of  their  being  a  gregari- 
ous class,  is  that  for  the  necessities  of  unfortunate  members  of 
their  craft  they  have  a  '  hand  open  as  day  to  melting  charity.' 
Returning,  however,  to  the  literary  character,  will  you  allow 
me  to  read  a  sketch  which  I  wrote,  some  time  ago,  to  illustrate 
a  little  fancy-piece,  the  hero  of  which  is  not  a  fancy-sketch, 
which  I  had  executed  for  an  Annual.  I  liave  the  engraving 
with  me.'' 

The   engraving   was    looked   for,   found,   handed    about, 
admired,  and  then  came — the  Artist  Story. 


LOVE      AND      PHRENOLOGY.  127 


LOYE   AND    PHEENOLOGY. 

Rabelais,  the  wittiest,  if  not  the  truest  of  all  historians, 
relates  that  Gargantua,  when  a  youth,  found  employment  iu 
setting  cows  to  catch  hares,  in  carrying  water  in  sieves,  in 
fishing  for  whales  in  tea-cups,  in  shoeing  goslings,  in  hunting 
for  needles  in  haystacks,  and  such  profitable  and  pleasant 
occupations.  What  Gargantua  did,  in  youth.  Professor 
Richter,  of  the  University  of  Ileidelberg,  pursued  in  age — 
that  is,  his  pursuits,  if  not  exactly  the  same,  were  equally 
practical  and  philosophical.     A  great  man  was  the  Professor. 

IIow  he  had  become  Professor,  no  one  knew — how  he  con- 
trived to  continue  in  that  capacity,  astonished  every  one. 
His  duties  principally  consisted  in  the  receipt  of  a  handsome 
income,  paid  quarterly.  It  was  necessary,  while  he  was  an 
official,  that  the  students  should  have  certificates  of  attendance 
on  his  Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind,  as 
part  of  their  curriculum.  The  custom  Avas  to  pay  the  fees, 
to  receive  the  certificates,  and  not  to  hear  the  lectures.  Thus 
the  Professor  had  a  sinecure,  which  has  been  described  as 
"  nothing  to  do,  and  well-paid  for  doing  it." 

A  venerable  youth  was  he — on  the  shady  side  of  sixty. 
Ho  knew  no  language  but  his  own,  and  that  not  very  well ; 
but  his  essays  in  the  Heidelberg  Mercury,  were  well-sprinkled 
with  Greek  and  Latin  sentences,  seldom  applicable  to  the 
subject,  and  industriously  conveyed  fi-om  a  huge  "  Dictionary 
of  Quotations."      He  had  commenced  life  as  a  spectacle- 


128  TRESSILIAN, 

maker,  but  having  no  skill  iu  that  calling,  he  used  the 
political  interest  which  his  press-connection  had  made,  to 
obtain  an  appointment  as  Professor.  Tie  ever  was  mounted 
on  some  hobby :  now,  he  would  give  a  lecture  on  Swim- 
ming, to  the  effect  that  little  boys  should  practice  on 
dry  land,  never  venturing  into  the  water,  until  they  had  thus 
acquired  adequate  skill,  nor  even  then  without  cork-jackets 
of  his  own  invention ;  anon,  he  would  wax  garrulous,  if  not 
eloquent,  upon  the  philosophic  mystery  of  making  a  spinning- 
top  perform  its  gyrations  on  a  clean  plate  for  half  an  hour  at 
a  time — for,  having  heard  that  Franklin  had  made  his 
electrical  experiments  and  discoveries  by  means  of  a  paper- 
kite,  this  Heidelberg  man  of  science  thus  resorted  to 
spinning-tops,  in  the  hope  of  discovering  Perpetual  Motion ! 
He  was  equally  practical  and  deeply  scientific  in  all  his  other 
experiments. 

Latterly,  the  Professor,  caught  by  its  novelty,  had  been 
seized  with  a  penchant  for  phrenology,  which,  at  the  time  he 
flourished,  was  becoming  popular  in  Germany.  After  some 
twelve  months'  musing  and  muddling  (he  always  was  such  a 
damp  soul,  that  had  he  ever  possessed  any  religious  faith,  it 
would  naturally  have  made  him  become  what  is  called  "a 
wet  Quaker"),  he  conceived  the  wonderful  idea  that,  as  the 
character  and  conduct  of  liuman  beings  depend  upon  the 
size  and  shape  of  their  respective  and  respected  skulls,  the 
character  could  be  formed,  and  the  conduct  mainly  guided, 
by  elevating  or  depressing,  bringing  forward  or  reducing  the 
different  "organs."  His  idea  was,  that  they  might  be  reduced 
by  means  of  compression,  and  developed  by  such  a  simple 
method  as  the  creation  of  a  vacuum  by  an  air-pump. 
Accordingly,  he  had  a  compress  made  of  gold,  which  (when 
he  could  get  a  suitable  subject),  he  resolved  to  fix  on  the 
head  by  a  strong  band,  secured  by  a  tourniquet.     This  appa- 


* 

LOVE      AND     PHEENOLOar.  129 

ratus  was  to  remain  on  the  head  day  and  night ;  and,  by 
giving  the  tourniquet  a  slight  turn  each  morning,  when  the 
cranium  is  said  to  be  most  compliant,  he  trusted  that,  in  a 
short  time,  he  should  be  able  to  compress  any  organ  to  its 
desiderated  normal  size.  On  the  other  hand,  the  use  of  a 
portable  air-pump  would  create  a  vacuum  in  a  vessel  of  strong 
flint-glass,  which,  if  placed  over  any  bump  not  adequately 
developed,  would,  he  calculated,  cause  its  gradual  elevation 
on  the  skull.  The  person  operated  upon  would  only  have  to 
wear  the  compass  and  tourniquet  day  and  night  for  the  short 
space  of  twelve  months,  remaining  for  the  same  period  under 
the  air-pump,  to  effect  all  that  the  Professor's  mighty  wisdom 
had  anticipated.  As  yet,  unfortunately,  he  had  not  met  with 
any  one  willing  to  make  the  experiment,  personally,  for  the 
promotion  of  science. 

I  should  like  to  make  a  sketch  of  Caroline  von  Pichler,  as 
pretty  a  German  maiden  as  ever,  when  a  lover  spoke  particu- 
larly, blushed  the  "Yes"  which  her  lips  would  not  utter  at 
once.  When  I  mention  German  beauty,  you  do  not  think,  I 
hope,  of  the  Teutonic  importations  who  annoy  our  eyes  with 
bronzed  faces,  mob  caps,  clay-coloured  hair,  thick  legs,  short 
petticoats,  dumpy  hands,  and  churn  waists.  Xo ;  such  is  not 
German  beauty.  "Walk  with  me  down  the  Kohlmarkt  (the 
Eegent  street  of  Vienna),  and  you  will  see  a  hundred  brillian- 
cies and  varieties  of  female  beauty.  Now  you  are  jostled  in 
that  thronged  thoroughfare,  and  the  finest  form  in  the  world 
flits  by  you,  and  the  most  speaking  eyes  vividly  flash  their 
bright  apologies  for  the  accident.  A  moment — ere  you  have 
time  to  regret  that  sweet  vision, 

"  One  of  those  forms  which  flits  by  us,  when  we 
Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face," 

you  meet  another  and  another,  and  another.     There  they  are, 

6* 


0 

130  TRESSILIAN. 

frequent  as  tlie  sweet  flowers  in  May,  or  the  bright  stars  E.t 
midnight, 

"  And  o}i !  the  loveliness  at  times  we  see 

In  momentary  gliding;  the  soft  grace, 
The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree 

In  many  a  nameless  being  we  retrace, 
Wliose  CQurSe  and  home  we  know  not,  nor  shall  know." 

They  are  varied,  too,  in  their  brightness  and  their  clime. 
The  radiant  freshness  of  the  English  complexion  ;  the  violent 
eyes  and  dark  lashes  of  the  Irish  beauties ;  the  beaming 
intellect  of  those  thoughtful  Italian  faces;  the  sweet  pathos 
■which  throws  a  shade  of  sadness  over  Polish  loveliness ;  the 
Asiatic  cast  of  the  Hungarian  aspect  ;  the  indescribable 
grace  which  elevates  the  Parisian  lack  of  what  we  call 
beauty ;  the  classic  contour  of  the  Grecian  outline ;  the  bril- 
liant but  evanescent  loveliness  of  young  America;  the 
mingled  fire  and  dignity  of  those  large  Spanish  eyes,  which 
seem  to  look  into  you  and  through  you ;  all  may  there  bo 
seen  and  admired,  as  they  flit  and  flash  by  you — but  among 
them  all,  none  is  foirer  than  the  earnest  and  simple  expression 
of  the  German  maiden,  just  as  she  has  begun  to  feel  that  she 
has  a  heart,  and  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love  to  make  it 
swell  with  a  tumult  of  passionate  thought. 

After  such  a  preface,  which  may  lead  you  to  expect  some- 
thing very  surpassing,  how  can  I  venture  to  describe  Caroline 
von  Pichler? 

Fancy  a  lovely,  loving,  and  loveable  girl,  of  bright  nine- 
teen, and  you  may  have  a  thought  of  Caroline.  Then,  like 
Cordelia's, 

"  Tier  voice  was  ever  soft, 
Geutle,  and  low  ;  an  excellent  thing  in  woman." 

Her  eyes  were  of  the  most  charming  gray — such  orbs  as  in 


LOVE      AND      PHRENOLOGY.  131 

the  lovely  face  of  Mary  of  Scotland,  won  many  a  heart.  Her 
figure  was  slight,  without  being  fragile.  Her  harr  was  light, 
and  in  beautiful  abundance.  Her  complexion,  carnationed 
like  an  infant's,  was  not  too  fresh,  I  need  not  catalogue  all 
her  charms,  but  let  me  add  that  she  had  what  Byron  calls 
"  thorough-bred  feet  and  fingers."  In  a  word,  both  in  person 
and  mind,  she  was  a  delightful  specimen  of  womanhood  in 
its  earliest  prime ;  well-educated,  too,  though  she  made  no 
display  of  her  attainments ;  fond  of  music,  and  even  suspected 
of  having  composed  some  of  the  airs  which  she  sweetly 
warbled;  and  gloriously  good-tempered,  in  spite  of  sundry 
and  frequent  trials  from  the  vinegar  disposition  of  Madame 
Annette  von  Pichler,  a  cross-grained  old  maid,  her  aunt  and 
guardian.  Wlien  Madame  scolded  (which,  to  do  her  justice, 
was  only  five  minutes  in  every  half-hour),  Caroline  resorted 
to  painting  or  the  piano.  If  these  did  not  please  her,  she 
retired  to  her  own  apartment  to  prepare  her  lessons  for  her 
private  tutor,  Ernst  Manheim. 

Ernst  was  young — not  yet  five-and-twenty.  He  was  hand- 
some. Caroline,  somehow  or  other,  always  identified  him,  in 
her  thoughts,  with  the  Apollo  Belvidere.  Poor  girl !  She 
was  not  the  first,  by  thousands,  who  had  raised  a  mortal 
into  an  idol,  making  her  own  heart  the  shrine. 

For  twelve  months,  Ernst  Manheim  had  been  visiting  tutor 
to  Caroline  von  Pichler.  I  cannot  say  whether  he  taught  her 
much  in  lanmiaofes  and  sciences ;  but  I  know  that  he  taufjht 
her  Love,  which  is  the  very  life  of  Life. 

A  great  crime ! — Ernst  had  been  absent  six  entire  days, 
and  had  only  sent  a  formal  apology  to  Madame,  that  he  was 
compelled  by  business  to  quit  Vienna  for  a  week.  Caroline, 
albeit  taught,  from  childhood,  to  avoid  even  the  remotest 
breach  of  the  Eighth  Commandment,  "appropriated  "  Ernst's 
note  from  her  aunt's  work-box,  and  carried  it  next  her  heart. 
What  odd  fancies  little  Cupid  leads  people  into ! 


132  TRESSILIAN. 

She  reclines  upon  tlie  sofa  in  the  Libraiy — dull,  distraite, 
and  languid.  Ha !  "whose  step  is  that  ?  It  is  outside — in  the 
street — and  yet  she  can  distinguish  it  among  every  foot-fall  in 
Vienna.     As  Scott  says, 

«  "  Oh,  lovers'  eyes  are  quick  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  are  quick  at  hearing !" 

Caroline  had  intended  something  like  reproach — an  extra- 
ordinary condition  of  society,  when  the  scholar  could  even 
harbour  the  idea  of  scolding  the  master ! — but,  when  Ernst 
entered,  the  intention  evaporated.  So  they  sat  down  to  read  ; 
but  Ernst  was  almost  silent,  and  the  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance was  very  grave. 

"You  are  dull  to-day,  Ernst,"  said  Caroline,  in  the 
sweetest  voice,  and  with  the  brightest  smile  in  the  world. 
"  What  has  annoyed  you  ?     Why  are  you  sad  ?" 

"  For  you,  Caroline,"  said  he,  taking  the  small  white  hand 
from  the  book  on  wkich  it  rested.  She  blushed,  but  did  not 
withdraw  that  little  hand. 

"  I  have  discovered,"  continued  Ernst — "  how,  it  does  not 
matter — that  your  excellent  aunt  has  bargained  to  marry  you 
to  Professor  Richter.  Your  fortune,  as  she  knows,  is  a  thing 
of  doubt ;  for  there  is  a  male  heir  somewhere,  and  if  he  claim 
it,  you  are  penniless.  Therefore,  as  she  has  lately  received 
notice  that  this  long  missing  heir  is  alive  and  at  hand,  slie 
would  secure  you  against  poverty,  by  marrying  you  to  the 
Professor." 

"  All  this  is  new  to  me,"  said  Caroline,  in  a  trembling  tone. 

*'  I  do  not  wonder  that  it  is,"  answered  Ernst.  "  Your 
gran<lfather,  the  Count  von  Fugger,  of  Augsburg,  bequeathed 
his  large  estates  to  you,  if  your  cousin,  then  in  the  Bavaiian 
army,  and  supposed  to  have  been  slain  in  the  battle  of 
Leipsig,  did  cot  appear  to  claim  them  within  five  years.  The 
time  has  nearly  elapsed,  but  your  cousin  has  made  his  claim, 


LOVE      AND     PHRENOLOGT.  133 

with  the  fullest  proof  of  his  identity.  Our  good  Emperor 
Francis  could  scarcely  refuse  him  speedy  justice,  for  your 
family  have  an  hereditary  right  to  obtain  not  only  justice  but 
favour  from  the  Imperial  ruler  of  Germany.  The  Emperor 
Charles  the  Fifth  borrowed  a  million  florins  from  Anthony 
von  Fugger,  one  of  your  ancestors,  one  of  the  merchant 
princes  of  Augsburg.  The  money  was  to  enable  him  to 
support  the  war  against  the  majority  of  the  Princes  of 
Germany.  He  returned  through  Augsburg,  a  conqueror, 
and  his  creditor  not  only  entertained  him  and  his  retinue  for 
two  days,  in  the  most  sumptuous  manner,  but,  before  the 
Emperor  departed,  put  bis  bond  into  a  fire  of  cinnamon  bark 
made  for  the  purpose,  and  burned  it  before  his  eyes.  In 
acknowledgment  of  this  generosity,  he  and  his  brother  were 
made  Counts  and  Bannerets  of  the  Empire,  receiving  lands 
and  fiefs  in  perpetuity  for  themselves  and  their  descend- 
ants.* Your  cousin's  claim  has  been  made,  has  been 
admitted  by  the  Imperial  Chancery,  has  been  confirmed  by 
the  Emperor ;  and,  this  very  day,  if  he  will,  he  may  take 
possession  of  your  lands,  your  wealth.  But  enough  of  this. 
Are  you  inclined  to  marry,  and  to  marry  the  Professor  ?'' 

There  fell  no  accent  of  reph^  from  the  ripe  lips  of  Caro- 
line ;  but  Ernst  saw  her  cheek  flush  and  then  become  pale, 
while  he  felt  her  hand  tremble  within  his. 

"Your  intended  will  be  here  to-day,"  added  he,  "and  it  is 
proposed  that  you  shall  marry  him  to-morrow." 


*  This  is  historical.  The  brothers  were  invested  with  the  estates  of  Kirchbcg  an  J 
Weisseiiliorn,  and  obtained  patents,  granting  tliera  tlie  privileges  of  ranking  with 
the  Prince  of  the  E:npire,  of  creating  nobles  under  the  rank  of  Count,  and  of 
coining  money.  On  Anthony's  death,  in  the  middle  of  the  16th  century,  he  left  six 
million  golden  crowns,  besiiles  jewels,  pictures,  merchandise,  and  other  personal 
property,  as  well  as  possessions  in  various  parts  of  Europe  and  the  Indies.  When 
Ciiarles  V.  was  shown  the  royal  treasure  at  Paris,  he  said,  "I  have  one  trader  at 
Augsburg,  who  could  pay  as  much  as  this  with  his  own  gold." 


134  TRESSILIAN. 

Caroline  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  earnestly  into  his,  but 
still  she  spoke  no  word.  There  was  such  a  silence  for  about 
a  minute  that  he  could  have  counted  her  heart-beats.  Then 
he  gently  pressed  her  hand :  she  blushed  again,  but  her  eyes 
did  not  seek  his,  this  time. 

Ernst  whispered,  "  You  would  avoid  this  marriage  ?  Per- 
haps your  aftections  are  already  engaged  ?" 

Even  yet  the  young  lady  continued  mute,  and  her  eyes  still 
sought  the  ground. 

"Perhaps  you  love  another?  love  him  deeply,  have  loved 
him  long  ?" 

"  Alas,  yes  1"  she  sighed,  "  too  deeply,  but  knew  it  not  until 
now." 

"  Dearest  Caroline !"  And  here,  as  if  by  magnetic 
attraction,  their  lips  imperceptibly  came  close — closer — 
and  met  in  the  first,  fond  kiss  of  youthful  love.  The  prudish 
may  blame  them,  if  they  please — but  we  know  the  fable  of 
"  sour  grapes  " — and,  for  my  own  part,  so  far  from  blaming 
one  or  both,  I  cannot  refrain  from  the  natural  and  involun- 
tary wish  that  it  had  been  my  own  good  fortune  to  have  been 
in  Ernst's  place  at  that  enviable  moment. 

The  soft  talk  which  followed  need  not  be  repeated  in  detail. 
There  were  gentle  confessions,  tender  words,  honied  phrases, 
soft  promises,  earnest  pleadings,  hearted  smiles,  and  joyful 
tears.  They  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  and  they  said  it.  They 
were  not  overcome  with  their  sensations — for  the  threatened 
marriage  dimly  loomed  in  the  distance — but  present  confessions 
united  to  make  a  cliastencd  delight.  As  Keats  says  of  his 
Diana  and  Endyraion, 

"  Perhaps  they  were  too  happy  to  be  glad." 

After  all  these  raptures,  they  came  back  to  common  sense. 


LOVE      AND      PHRENOLOGY.  135 

"  I  have  been  absent  for  a  week,"  said  Ernst.  "  I  had  a  pre- 
vious hint  of  this  intended  marriage,  and  went  to  Ileidel- 
berg  to  see  my  learned  rival.  Such  an  exhibition  !  On  the 
strength  of  his  approaching  change  of  condition,  he  has 
assumed  the  airs  and  dress  of  a  petit-maitre.  Fancy  a  man, 
old  enough  to  be  your  grandfather,  dressed  like  a  modern 
Exquisite  ;  with  Hyperion  curls — his  own — by  purchase  ;  as 
fresh  a  bloom  upon  his  hollow  cheeks — as  camiine  can 
bestow ;  a  thin  moustache,  dyed  to  the  colour  of  his  peruke ; 
a  frame  bending  beneath  the  burden  of  seventy  winters — 
decked  out  to  ape  the  juvenility  of  one-and- twenty.  lu  a 
word,  dearest  Caroline,  the  dotage  and  decrepitude  of  age 
arrayed  in  all  the  vanity  of  boyhood.    Such  is  your  intended." 

"We  must  avoid  this  marriage?"  said  the  young  lady,  with 
a  smile. 

"  That  I  have  arranged,  lady-bird !  I  have  seen  him, 
spoken  to  him,  and  ascertained  that  he  is  well-disposed  to 
make  you  the  victim  of  his  great  experiments  in  phrenology." 

"  Phrenology ! — what  a  hard  word.  Can  you  tell  me  what 
it  means  ?" 

"  My  Caroline,  it  means  the  art  of  knowing  what  is  in  the 
head  from  merely  looking  at  its  outside.  A  Phrenologist 
thinks  that  the  mind  is  in  the  brain,  so  that  there  is  no  great 
use  for  the  heart,  except  to  send  out  blood  through  the  arteries 
and  get  it  well  back  through  the  veins.  He  does  not  believe, 
as  you  and  I  do,  that  hearts  were  made " 

"  For  what,  Ernst  ?" 

"  For  love,  my  princess !" 

It  is  a  pity  to  interrupt  such  an  interesting  dialogue,  but  we 
cannot  allow  the  young  people  to  remain  talking  ad  libitum, 
en  such  exciting  subject. — Fancy  it  some  four-andtwenty 
hours  later,  if  you  please ;  the  next  day  in  fact. 

The  morrow  had  duly  arrived,  and  so  had  the  Professor. 


130  TRESSILIAN. 

There,  also,  v,as  Ernst, — giving  Caroline  her  lesson,  as  if 
nothing  ordinary  were  to  happen,  in  that  very  library  where 
they  had  all  their  soft  talk  on  the  previous  day.  At  break- 
fast, Madame  Annette  had  told  her  niece  that  it  was  full  time 
for  her  to  be  inarried — Caroline  had  answered,  that  perhaps 
it  was,  Madame  x\nnette  had  then  praised  her  own  discre- 
tion, and  announced  that  Professor  Richter  would  be  a  fit  and 
proper  nephevv-in-law — Caroline  had  smiled,  and  not  ventured 
to  contradict  her  aunt.  Madame  Annette  had  intimated  that 
all  the  wedding-clothes  were  ready — Caroline  had  gravely 
thanked  her.  Lastly,  Madame  Annette  bade  her  take  her 
last  lesson  from  Ernst,  as  she  was  to  be  married  that  evening 
— and  Caroline  went,  like  a  dutiful  niece. 

A  loud  crack  of  the  postillion's  whip,  the  rattle  of  a  car- 
riage in  the  court-yard.  The  Professor  had  arrived.  What  a 
wonderfully  scientific  man!  He  was  accompained  by  twenty 
thick  volumes  of  the  Heidelberg  Mercury,  containing  all  his 
Essays.  He  had  brouglit  a  large  box  filled  with  cork-jackets, 
in  case  that  he  should  go  boating.  He  had  also  brought  a  mag- 
nificent spinning-top.  Nor  was  this  all — he  was  accompanied, 
also,  by  his  curious  collection  of  skulls  and  casts,  to  be  used 
in  teaching  Phrenology  to  his  bride,  and  he  had  moreover 
brought  with  him  the  gold  compress  for  reducing,  and  the 
portable  air-pump  for  enlarging  the  bumps  of  the  human 
cranium.  It  was  a  mystery  how  all  his  luggage  could  have 
been  safely  brought,  with  himself,  in  one  vehicle. 

Wonderful  things!  But,  to  apply  Coleridge's  quotation, 
the  "  voonder  of  voonders,"  was  Professor  Ptichter  himself. 

One  might  have  thought  him  turned  out  of  a  band-box,  so 
well  was  he  made  up.  The  moustaches  had  received  a  fresh 
application  of  Turkish  dye, — he  had  put  on  his  new  ventilat- 
ing pei'uke — he  had  pearl-powder,  as  well  as  rouge,  upon 
bis  cheeks — he  had  invested  hiinself  in  a  magnificent  suit  of 


LOVE      AND      PHRENOLOGY.  137 

c-Iotlies, — lio  appeared  quite  a  modern  antique,  re-set  and 
ornamented. 

Having  been  shown  into  the  library,  he  saluted  the  fair 
Caroline,  with  an  affectation  of  youthful  spirit,  and  graciously 
condescended  to  express  his  satisfaction  at  renewing  his 
acquaintance  with  Ernst.  While  they  were  exchanging  com- 
pliments, Madame  Annette  came  in — rather  discomposed,  for 
one  of  the  boxes  of  skulls  had  been  broken  en  route,  and  the 
relics  of  mortality  were  rolling  around  the  hall.  The  Pro- 
fessor rushed  out  speedily  and  carefully  picked  them  up,  and 
then  gallantly  escorted  Caroline  to  the  dejeiine,  dividing 
Lis  attention  between  it  and  the  ladies.  After  this  they 
returned  to  the  library. 

Madame  Annette  soon  introduced  the  subject  of  their  meet- 
ing, intimating  that  the  marriage  would  take  place  that  even- 
ing. The  Professor  expressed  his  delight  at  the  arrange- 
ment which  would  so  soon  render  him  the  happiest  of  men, 
but  gravely  added  a  hope,  that  Caroline  would  previously 
Lave  the  goodness  to  submit  to  a  Phrenological  examina- 
tion. 

"A  Phreno— what?"  said  Madame,  whn  had  never  heard 
of  the  science. 

"  An  examination  of  her  head,  my  dear  Madame,"  blandly 
replied  the  Professor. 

Madame  did  not  appear  to  know  what  he  meant,  so  the 
Professor  continued: — "We  take  a  skull,  such  as  this,  for 
instance,"  running  into  the  hall,  and  returning  with  a  skull 
in  his  hand,  "  on  which  the  location  of  each  organ  is  mapped 
out.  We  see  how  the  brain  is  disposed  in  the  living  subject 
b\  comparing  it  with  these  organs,  and  thus  we  judge  of  the 
character,  the  intellect,  and  the  disposition  of  each  individual. 
You  will  find  it  all  lucidly  explained  in  the  thirteenth  volume 
of  the  Heidelberg  Mercury,  page  157.     There  are  notices  of 


138  TRESSILIAN. 

it  in  many  of  the  other  volumes,  which  you  can  readily  con- 
sult, as  I  have  brought  the  whole  set  of  twenty  elephant  folios 
■with  me,  thinking  that  my  Caroline  might  like  some  pleasant 
reading  to  amuse  her  during  the  honey-moon." 

"  What  nonsense  is  the  man  saying  ?"  muttered  Madame, 
in  an  ominous  under-growl. 

"If  the  young  lady  will  sit  down,"  continued  the  Sage, 
unaware  of  the  threatening  stonn,  "I  shall  now  proceed  with 
the  examination."  Accordingly,  obeying  a  nod  from  Ernst,  the 
young  lady  sat  down.  The  Professor  placed  the  skull  on  the 
table  before  him,  and  was  about  commencing,  when  he  found 
that  he  had  mislaid  his  spectacles — they  were  very  safe  in 
Ernst's  pocket,  at  the  moment — but  Ernst  volunteered  his 
aid  as  assistant,  and  the  Professor  was  fain  to  accept  it.  So, 
the  examination  commenced. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Professor,  "  begin  with  the  affective  organs. 
Let  me  judge  what  sort  of  a  wife  she  will  make." 

As  it  was  not  Ernst's  game  to  speak  of  them  as  they  actu- 
ally were,  he  thus  catalogued  them  :  Combativeness,  large  : 
Destructiveness,  full :  Amativeness,  small :  Philoprogenitive- 
ness,  none.'''' 

"Ilold!"  cried  the  Professor,  starting  up;  "this  will  never 
answer.  She  is  deficient  in  the  natural  and  ordinary  faculties 
of  her  sex.  We  must  subject  her  to  my  experiment.  This," 
said  he,  turning  to  Madame  Annette;  "this  will  shew  the 
triumph  of  Science.  I  shall  apply  my  compress  and  tourni- 
quet to  reduce  Destructiveness  and  Combativeness,  and  shall 
use  my  portable  air-pump  and  exhausted  receiver,  to  develope 
Amativeness,  Philoprogenitiveness,  and  the  other  matrimonial 
organs.  The  double  apparatus — liow  fortunate  that  I  have 
brought  it  with  me — does  not  weigh  more  than  forty  pounds, 
and  she  will  have  to  wear  it,  day  and  night,  for  not  more 
than  a  twelvemonth.     Madame,  may  I  trouble  you  to  cut  off 


LOVE      AND      PHRENOLOGY.  189 

your  niece's  hair,  that  we  may  lose  no  time  in  commencing 
the  development  and  depression  ?" 

Unfortunately  for  the  interest  and  advancement  of  Science, 
Madame  Annette  Von  Pichler  no  sooner  comprehended  the 
nature  of  this  proposition,  than  she  quietly  flung  the  mapped 
skull  out  of  the  window,  and  calling  up  her  servant,  gave 
such  decided  orders  for  her  house  to  be  cleared  of  "  all  that 
rubbish"  (as  she  irreverently  called  the  Professor  and  his  cargo), 
that  this  eminent  and  highly  indignant  man  immediately 
quitted  the  domicile,  and  made  the  best  of  his  way  back  to 
Heidelberg,  where  he  might  be  seen  to  this  very  day,  if  he 
had  not  died  on  the  first  of  April,  thirty  years  ago,  being,  by 
a  curious  coincidence,  the  appropriate  anniversaiy  of  his 
birth. 

"  There,"  exclaimed  Madame  Annette,  when  the  Professor 
and  his  learned  lumber  had  been  cleared  away — "  there !  The 
man  is  mad.  I  thought  so,  when  I  saw  him  decked  out  as  if 
he  were  only  one-and-twenty.  I  had  rather  that  my  Caroline 
lost  forty  fortunes  than  gain  such  a  loss*  as  the  competency 
of  that  absurd  old  creature  could  have  given  you.  Never 
mind,  Caroline ;  though  your  cousin  has  turned  up,  and  will 
take  your  fortune  from  you,  there  is  enough  left  of  mine  to 
make  you  comfortable.  But  oh !  that  beautiful  wedding 
dinner !  what  is  to  be  done  with  it  ?  We  cannot  use  it  now 
— it  will  all  be  spoiled !" 

"  Suppose  we  prevent  such  an  awful  catastrophe,"  said 
Ernst.  "  If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  read  this  missive,  to 
which  ihe  imperial  seal  and  signature  are  duly  attached,  you 


•  "  Oained  a  loss." — Madame  Annette  could  have  quoted  authority  for  this 
phrase.  An  Irish  gentleman,  who  had  married  a  dashing  lady  of  fashion,  with  a 
moderate  fortune,  and  an  immoderate  taste  for  expenditure,  replied  mournfully  to 
gome  gratulations  on  the  happy  event:  "Thank  you  kindly — but  I  am  afraid  Ihava 
gained  a  loss." 


140  TRESSILIAN. 

will  see  that  I,  whom  you  have  known  as  Ernst  Manheim,  the 
private  tutor  of  your  neice,  am  the  very  cousin,  whose  return 
to  his  native  country,  after  much  journeying,  and  long 
absence  in  remote  lands,  was  to  rob  her  of  her  fortune.  If  I 
do — it  shall  be  to  share  it  with  her,  and  give  her  the  title  of 
Countess  Von  Fugger." 

Madame  Annette  could  offer  no  objection  to  such  a  sensible 
proposition,  involving  the  happiness  of  her  niece,  the  increase 
of  her  family  by  the  accession  of  a  young  gentleman,  standing 
in  double  relation  as  cousin  and  husband  to  Caroline,  and, 
above  all,  the  certainty  of  the  wedding  feast  being  consumed 
by  a  wedding  party.  Ernst  had,  previously,  made  all  the 
necessary  arrangements,  even  to  the  invitin_g  a  select  party  of 
friends,  and  in  due  course  of  time,  his  wife  and  his  aunt  were 
made  acquainted  with  all  the  "  moving  incidents  by  flood  and 
field,"  into  which  his  truant  disposition  had  plunged  him. 


LOVE     AND      PHRENOLOGY.  141 

"  Perhaps,"  asked  Tressilian,  "  it  may  not  be  too  much  to 
inquire  whether  this  adventure  comes  under  the  head  of  fact 
or  fancy  ?  Has  it  been  written  to  illustrate  the  sketch,  or  has 
the  work  of  the  pen  preceded  that  of  the  pencil  ?" 

"I  plead  guilty,"  said  Crayon,  "to  the  invention  of  the 
story ;  but  though  the  incidents  have  been  imagined,  to  illus- 
trate the  drawing,  the  main  character  was  real,  and  the 
original  might  be  encountered,  any  day  of  the  week,  in  the 
town  of  Liverpool.  To  shoot  folly  as  it  flies,  is  a  legitimate 
task  for  any  one  who  writes ;  and  the  original  of  my  Pro- 
fessor Richter  presented  so  many,  and  such  obvious  marks, 
that  I  could  not  help  hitting  them.  As  the  Irish  gentleman 
said,  at  Donnybrook  fair,  when  he  dealt  a  blow  of  his  hurley 
to  some  bald  head,  which  the  wearer  had  thrust  out  of  a  slit 
in  the  tent,  with  the  purpose  of  cooling  it,  '  It  was  so  tempt- 
ing, that  I  could  not  help  striking  it.'  For  my  own  part, 
however,  I  rather  fear  that  I  have  not  shown  my  hero  half 
so  absurd  as  the  original ;  in  this  respect,  my  failing  has 
leaned  on  the  side  of  moderation." 

"  It  would  not  be  difficult,"  said  Butler,  "  to  make  a  curious 
chapter  out  of  the  originals  whom  one  meets  with  in  the 
daily  path  of  life.  I  encountered  one,  as  peculiar  as  Andrew 
Horner  or  the  hero  of  Mr.  Crayon's  story.  Do  me  the 
fa^our  of  hearing  who  he  was,  and  hov\^I  happened  to  meet 
him." 


142  TRESSILIAN. 


THE    COMPOSER    OF   POETEY. 

Some  years  ago,  when  I  first  visited  London,  I  used  to  pass 
to  the  British  Museum  through  Wych  street,  Drury  Lara  ; 
in  which,  as  all  the  world  knows,  stands  the  Olympic 
Theatre.  Lnmediately  opposite  this  temple  of  the  drama, 
an  old  book-shop  veiy  unpretendingly  reared  its  humble 
front.  I  should  probably  not  have  noticed  it,  if  my 
attention  had  not  been  caught  by  a  very  fine  engraving,  after 
Phillips's  well-known  portrait  of  Lord  Byron,  which  hung 
in  its  half-window.  Crossing  the  street,  to  examine  and 
admire  it,  I  could  not  refrain  from  looking  at  the  collec- 
tion of  books  which  were  displayed  on  the  shelf,  in  the  said 
half-window,  beneath  the  portrait — from  a  hundred  to  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  volumes,  perhaps. 

It  was  rather  startling  to  find  that  these  books  were  all 
upon  one  subject.  Dallas's  Recollections  of  Lord  Byron — 
Galignani's  edition,  containing  the  Letters  to  his  mother  aud 
Mr.  Dallas,  the  publication  of  which  a  Chancery  injunction 
prohibited  in  this  country — were  vis-a-vis  with  Leigh  Hunt's 
unfortunate  quarto  on  Lord  Byron  and  Some  of  his  Contem- 
poraries. Medwin's  Conversations  of  Lord  Byron  at  Pisa, 
were  close  to  Dr.  Kennedy's  Conversations  on  Religion  with 
him  in  Cephalonia.  There,  too,  might  be  found  Moore's 
quarto  biograjjliy  of  the  wayward  Childe,  and  Gait's  pert 
duodecimo.  The  annual  Biography  and  Obituary  for  1824, 
containing  another  Memoir,  reposed  by  the  side  of  Clinton's 


THE      COMPOSER     OF      POETRY.  143 

Life  of  Byron — which  will  yet  be  curious  to  a  book-collector, 
as  containing  a  variety  of  spirited  wood-cuts  after  George 
Cruikshank.  Knight  and  Lacy's  Byron  Anecdotes  paired  off 
with  Nathan's  Fugitive  Pieces  and  Reminiscences  of  Lord 

Byron. 

Nor  was  there  any  lack  of  works  relating  to  Byron's  last 
Visit  to  Greece,  and  his  Death  there.  I  noticed  the  volumes 
published  by  Colonel  Leicester  Stanhope,  Count  Pietro 
Garaba  (brother  of  the  Guiccioli),  Colonel  Leake,  Mr.  Bla- 
quiere.  Dr.  Millingen,  and  Major  Parry. 

In  that  collection,  also,  were  several  works  of  fiction  in 
which  Byron  was  exhibited  as  the  hero :  Harold  the  Exile,  a 
forgotten  offshoot  of  the  Minerva  press  ;  Lady  Caroline 
Lamb's  Glenarvon,  and  Miss  Cursham's  Norman  Abbey. 
Here,  also,  might  be  found  the  Vampire,  written  by  Dr. 
Polodori,  and  greedily  accepted  in  France,  for  a  long  time,  as 
a  veritable  work  of  Byron's.  As  fitting  company  to  that 
contemptible  fiction,  there  was  the  account  of  Byron's  Resi- 
dence in  the  Isle  of  Mitylene  (an  island  which  he  never  even 
visited) ;  and  the  equally  accurate  Narrative  of  his  Voyago 
to  Corsica  and  Sardinia  in  1821,  in  his  yacht  Mazeppa, 

William  Howitt's  Poet's  Pilgrimage  to  Newstead  was 
there,  with  its  quaint  little  view  of  Hucknall  Church ;  it  was 
companioned  by  tributes  from  the  pens  of  foreigners — tho 
Countess  Albrizzi's  Portraits  of  Illustrious  men,  including  the 
clever  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  Byron ;  M.  Beyle's  notice  of  the 
poet,  in  the  History  of  Painting  in  Italy ;  Casimer  Dela- 
vigne's  Messenian  on  Byron ;  Lamartine's  Last  Canto  of 
Childe  Harold ;  the  Marquis  de  Salvo's  Byron  in  Italy  and 
Greece ;  and  Madame  Belloc's  more  critical  tribute.  I  also 
noticed  several  translations  of  Byron  by  French  authors, 
including  the  prosaic  attempt,  in  metre,  which  Madame  Lucile 
Thomas  has  perpetrated  on  The  Corsair.      In  that  collection 


144  TRESSILIAN. 

were  also  several  translations,  into  the  Russian  language,  by 
Joukovsky,  and  others  with  more  unpronounceable  names. 

There  were  numerous  copies  of  the  poet's  works;  Galig- 
nani's  single  volume,  with  the  Memoir,  by  Lake ;  the  eight 
small  volumes,  issued  to  the  imiversal  Yankee  Nation,  by 
Carey  and  Hart,  of  Philadelphia ;  the  six  duodecimos  of 
Murray's  issue  (which  preceded  his  seventeen  volume  edition 
of  the  Life  and  AVorks),  and  the  supplementary  volumes, 
containing  the  whole  of  Don  Juan,  and  the  latter  poems, 
published  by  the  Hunts.  There,  also,  was  not  only  the  editio 
2'>rinceps  of  each  of  Byron's  works,  but  every  successive 
edition :  a  curious  collection  this,  for  it  was  headed  by  the 
thin  quarto  of  Juvenilia,  printed  by  Ridge,  of  Newark,  ?.n 
1806,  but  destroyed  (all  but  four  copies)  at  the  desire,  a-.d 
by  the  persuasion  of  Mr.  Beecher,  the  poet's  early  frieu.'. 
There  was  The  Hours  of  Idleness,  emanating  from  the  samfi 
countiy  press ;  the  English  Bards,  which  some  one  had 
illustrated,  at  great  expense,  with  the  portrait  and  autograph 
of  every  writer  therein  named ;  the  oi'iginal  edition  of  Lara, 
issued  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Rogers'  Jacqueline  ;  every 
thing,  in  short,  from  the  earliest  of  Byron's  publiiihed 
wntings  to  the  last  cantos  of  Don  Juan,  which  appeared  in 
London  only  a  month  before  his  death  in  Greece.  And 
there  micfht  also  be  found  the  half-a-dozen  continuations  of 
Don  Juan,  which,  from  time  to  time,  have  appeared  to  show 
the  writer's  benevolent  desire  that  the  trunk-makers  should 
not  be  distressed  for  waste  paper.  A  thin  pamphlet,  con- 
taining The  Parliamentary  Speeches,  consistently  reposed  on 
The  Liberal,  by  the  side  of  which  was  Mazeppa  Travestied, 
and  Childe  Harold  in  the  Shades,  "an  infernal  Romaunt." 
Ranging  with  these,  was  Hobhouse's  Historical  Illustrations 
of  Childe  Harold ;  nay,  as  if  resolved  to  show  that  whatever 
was  allied  to  Byron  should  have  a  place  there,  I  noticed 


THE     COMPOSER     OF     POETRY.  146 

Coramodore  John  Byron's  Narrative  of  the  Loss  of  the  "Wager 
(niched  in  Don  Juan,  whose  sufferings  were 

"  Comparative 
To  those  related  in  my  grand-dad's  narratiye)," 

and  the  present  Lord  Byron's  quarto  Voyage  to  the  Sand- 
wich Islands. 

Nor  was  there  any  lack  of  friendly  and  unfriendly  criti- 
cism and  comment,  from  Gifford,  Scott,  Wilson,  Lockhart, 
Joseph  Cottle,  Dr.  Styles,  Dr.  Croly,  C.  C.  Colton,  Maginn, 
Hazlitt,  and  Harding  Grant,  with  Don  Juan  Unmasked,  and  a 
heap  of  anonymous  pamphlets ;  and  towering  among  them, 
like  a  pyramid  surrounded  by  huts,  was  a  bulky  Album,  into 
which  had  been  collected  the  thousand-and-one  anecdotes, 
slanders,  praises,  and  inventions  which  had  appeared  in  the 
newspapers  during  Byron's  life,  and  since  his  death.  Among 
them — indeed  it  figured  as  the  first  thing  in  the  volume — 
was  the  Original  Proclamation,  announcing  Byron's  Death, 
and  the  laments  of  Greece,  issued  at  Missolonghi  by  Prince 
Maurocordato,  on  the  part  of  the  Provisional  Government, 
on  the  evening  of  that  19th  of  April,  1824,  when  the  cause 
of  Freedom  lost  its  truest  champion,  with  the  Funeral 
Oration  spoken  by  Spiridion  Tricoupis  at  the  same  place,  a 
few  days  after.  There  they  were,  in  the  original  Gr^ek,  and 
some  one  had  taken  the  pains  to  supply  translations,  which 
had  been  carefully  and  neatly  written  out  and  placed  in  the 
book,  with  the  original  mourning-edged  documents.  Such 
eulogy,  from  such  men — speaking  with  the  voice  of  a  grate- 
ful and  grieving  nation — outweighs  all  the  bitter  censure  and 
faint  praise  of  open  enemies  and  pretended  friends.  There, 
too,  framed  and  glazed,  was  a  quarto  page  of  Childe  Harold, 
in  the  poet's  scrawling  autograph.  It  was  singular  to  find, 
thus  heaped  together,  all  that  Byron  had  published,  together 

1 


146  TRESSILIAN.  - 

■witli  the  bulk  of  wliat  friends  and  foes  have  related  of  hira, 
either  as  matter-of-fact,  conjecture,  or  opinion, 

I  had  fallen,  it  was  evident,  on  a  Byronic  bookstall.  There 
■was  no  volume  in  that  collection  which  was  not  either 
written  by  or  about  the  author  of  Childe  Harold.  I  have 
seen  such  strange  things  in  my  brief  day,  that,  in  self-defence, 
I  have  adopted  the  "  nil  admirari "  of  Horace,  as  my  maxim, 
and  am  rarely  overcome  with  surprise  at  any  thing ;  but  this 
exclusiveness  —  so  completely  a  la  Byron — did  surprise 
me.  I  looked  through  the  shop-window  to  discover  what 
manner  of  man  was  the  bibliopole.  I  could  not  see  any 
body  within — but  that  was  the  less  marvellous,  inasmuch  as 
it  appeared  doubtful  whether  the  window-panes  had  ever 
been  cleaned.  There  was  no  view  of  the  interior.  The 
books  were  left  exposed  to  public  view  and  examination,  as  if 
the  Byronic  vender  had  a  fond  confidence  and  consciousness 
that  any  one  would  as  soon  commit  sacrilege  as  steal  them  ! 

I  stood  by  the  window  for  nearly  half-an-hour,  during 
which  time  many  persons  passed.  Some  casually  took  up  the 
books,  to  look  at  them.  Two  or  three  seemed  half-inclined 
to  purchase,  but  went  oft",  because  no  salesman  was  forth- 
coming. Yet,  unprotected  as  was  this  literary  stock-in-trade, 
no  one  appeared  inclined  to  abstract  any  part  of  it.  After 
spending  some  time  in  looking  through  the  books,  with  vain 
expectation  of  the  advent  of  their  chapman,  I,  too, 

•'  Homeward  sped  my  solitary  way." 

Day  after  day,  I  passed  by  this  mysterous  dwelling — day 
after  day,  I  was  disappointed  in  my  expectation  of  seeing  its 
inhabitant.  There  was  a  touch  of  mystery  in  this — akin  to 
that  which  formed  an  atmosphere  around  the  goodly  person 
of  Washington  Irving's  "  Stout  Gentleman  " — which  put  me 
in  a  sort  of  literarv  fever.     Who  could  this  Byron  book- 


THE      COMPOSER      OF      POETRY.  147 

collector  be  ?  Was  he  an  Eidolon,  or  a  reality  1  Was  he 
always  invisible? — how  was  it  that  I  could  never  get  a  sight 
of  him  ? 

Once  upon  a  time,  happening  to  attend  a  public  meeting 
■where  Dr.  Spurzheim  was  also  present,  that  phrenologist 
suddenly  intimated  to  me,  that  the  organ  of  "  Ideality  "  was  so 
strongly  developed  on  my  brow  as  to  make  him  desirous  to 
have  a  cast  of  my  cranium  ;  a  very  unpleasant  process  this 
cast-taking  is,  by  the  way,  for  when  the  head  is  cased  in  plas- 
ter of  Paris,  the  slightest  touch  of  a  pin  on  the  crust  will 
make  you  fancy  that  you  have  been  buried  alive,  and  do  not 
only  hear,  but  feel  the  earth  scattered  on  your  coffin.  This 
"Ideality"  has  played  me  a  thousand  tricks,  especially  when 
it  sets  me  to  become  the  architect  of  those  exquisitely-formed 
edifices  known  as  Castles  in  the  Air.  In  the  case  of  the 
invisible  book-seller  of  Wych-street,  it  plunged  me  into  a 
world  of  conjecture.  Sometimes  I  fancied  him  a  poetic 
incognito,  who,  having  pap-fed  his  mind  with  album  verses, 
had  resolved  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  endeavour  to  quaff 
stronger  aliment  from  the  passion-filled  pages  of  Byron,  and 
had  set  out  the  volumes  to  air,  before  he  commenced  cram- 
ming himself  with  their  sublimity  and  sense.  Sometimes  I 
conjectured  that  it  was  some  modern  Sappho,  who,  having 
herself  spun  a  ream  or  two  of  verses,  was  about  setting  up  on 
her  own  account,  and  wished  to  dispose  of  her  Byron  library, 
as  of  no  further  use  to  her.  Sometimes — heaven  help  us — I 
fancied  that  it  might  be  some  dreadful  incarnation,  some 
angel  of  the  lower  sphere,  who  having  heard  that  Byron  was 
founder  of  what  Southey  sharply  calls  "  the  Satanic  School  of 
Poetry,"  had  been  sent  up  to  collect  a  library  of  reference  for 
that  place  which  remains  unnamed  to  ears  polite,  and  had 
commenced  with  this  set  of  Byron,  his  critics,  translators,  and 
biographers. 


148  TRESSILIAK.  "r 

Conjecture,  however  wild  and  varied,  did  not  help  me  to  a 
sight  of  the  bookseller — the  custos  of  the  Shop.  Where  was 
he  ? — where  could  he  be  ?  Had  he  any  right  to  set  people 
■wondering  at  his  constant  absence  ?  Why  should  he,  above 
all  men,  resemble  what  Mr.  Gait  described  Byron  as — "a 
mystery  in  a  winding-sheet,  crowned  with  a  halo"?  I  began 
to  have  serious  thoughts  of  privately  setting  fire  to  the  pre- 
mises, on  the  presumption  that  if  he  were  on  them,  that 
would  bring  him  out.  But  I  happily  recollected  that  the 
houses  in  that  neighbourhood  were  old — that  the  Olympic, 
being  chiefly  built  of  wood,  might  easily  catch  fire,  as  it  did, 
the  other  day,  when  it  was  burnt  down, — that  it  was  easier  to 
make,  than  to  check  a  conflagration — that  the  crime  of  arson 
is  looked  at  very  unkindly  by  the  law — and  that,  perhaps,  I 
might  find  it  diflicult  to  get  a  jury  to  understand  and  excuse 
my  motives.     So.  I  refrained. 

Through  Wych  street  I  made  it  a  point  of  passing  at  all 
hours  of  the  day : — the  books  were  invariably  exposed  to  view, 
but  the  door  of  that  mysterious  shop  was  never  open.  There 
the  books  always  were — there,  their  owner  was  not.  At 
that  time  I  was  engaged  in  severe  and  time-engrossing  studies ; 
but  I  could  not  help  thinking,  much  oftener  than  I  ought,  of 
the  little  book-stall  in  Wych  street,  and  its  unseen  owner. 
Who  could  he  be? — where  was  he? 

Once,  as  I  was  passing  by,  a  tall  gentleman,  in  spectacles, 
came  up  to  me  as  I  was  standing  with  one  of  the  books  in 
my  hand — a  feint  of  mine  to  obtain  a  sight  of  the  bookseller. 
"  A  strange  fellow  keeps  this  shop,  sir,"  said  he.  "  You  have 
seen  him,  then  ?"  I  asked,  with  some  eagerness.  "  I  know 
him,"  said  he.  "When  he  first  came  here,  nearly  three 
months  ago,  I  purchased  some  of  these  books  from  him, 
giving  him  the  price  he  asked,  for  I  had  known  his  father 
many  years  ago,  and  wished  to  encourage  the  son.     lie  sent 


THE      COMPOSER     OF     POETRT.  149 

the  books  to  my  house,  as  I  had  desired,  but  he  came  to  me, 
about  a  week  after,  looking  so  very  unhappy,  that  I  asked 
him  whether  any  misfortune  had  happened  to  him.  He  said, 
that  he  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  but,  if  it  did  not  make 
much  difference  to  me,  he  would  be  very  much  obliged  by 
my  taking  back  the  money  I  had  paid  him  for  the  books,  .-md 
letting  hina  take  them  away  with  him.  It  turned  out,  when  I 
questioned  him,  that  he  did  not  like  to  break  his  collection — 
even  though  it  was  by  their  sale  that  he  was  to  live.  I 
granted  his  request,  and  he  took  away  the  books,  evidently 
set  at  ease  by  thus  readily  regaining  possession  of  them.  It 
is  a  decided  case  of  monomonia.  To  be  sure,  he  has  cause 
to  respect  the  memory  of  Bryon,  for  he  is " 

At  this  moment,  just  as  I  was  in  hopes  of  learning  some- 
thing about  the  Unknown,  a  gentleman  came  up,  took  him 
with  the  spectacles  by  the  hand,  walked  him  off,  with 
"  My  dear  Gait — you  are  the  very  person  I  want  to  advise 
with  ;"  and  thus,  on  the  very  eve  of  having  my  curiosity 
gratified,  it  was  cruelly  left  to  eat  its  heart  away. 

Fortune,  like  the  rest  of  her  soft-hearted  sex,  does  not 
always  frown  on  those  who  have  faith  and  patience  to  entreat 
her  earnestly.  So  I  found,  when,  one  day,  as  it  rained 
heavily  while  I  was  passing  the  Olympic  Theatre,  I  saw  a 
door  open,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and  having 
neither  cloak  nor  umbrella,  I  rushed  across  to  that  23ortal  for 
shelter  from  the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm. 

The  luckiest  shower  in  the  world  !  The  front  door  which  I 
found  open  was  that  of  the  mysterious  book-shop.  I  had 
gained  the  haven. 

Once  there,  I  resolved  not  to  "  quit  the  premises "  until  I 
had  solved  the  riddle.  Between  me  and  the  sanctum 
sanctorum  of  the  actual  shop,  there  yet  remained  the  inter- 
vening obstacle  of  a  partition-wall :  but  that  was  a  trifle  to 


150  ■>  T  RE  S  S  I  Ll  A  N.         .       :    :    ' 

the  adventurous.  I  was  in  the  hall — some  three  feet  wide — 
common  to  two  shops.  One  of  these  (that  of  the  bookseller, 
the  male  Sphynx  of  Wych  street !)  was  closed.  But  I  heard 
sounds  from  within — the  clatter  of  a  knife  and  fork — which 
assured  me  at  once  of  the  actual  vicinity  of  the  Unknown,  as 
well  as  of  the  fact  that  he  was,  like  myself,  "  of  earth, 
earthy."  The  man  was  evidently  engaged  on  that  great 
work — his  dinner. 

Of  course,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  wait  until  I  saw  him — 
until  I  had  speech  of  him :  aye,  though  I  should  have  had  to 
wait  in  that  dim,  narrow  passage  until  midnight.  Very 
patiently  did  I  delay,  for  nearly  half-an-hour,  for  some  kind 
genius  to  let  me  in.  At  last — reward  for  all  patience,  com- 
pensation for  all  anxiety — the  door  stealthily  creaked  upon 
the  hinges,  as  if  it  were  opened  in  a  mysterious  manner.  I 
quickly  darted  in.  I  was  at  once  bold  and  fortunate.  I  was 
within  the  penetralium. 

In  many  books  of  travel  which  I  have  read,  I  have 
observed  that  the  authors  were  invariably  "  struck  all  in  a 
heap,"  when  they  first  laid  eyes  on  the  shrine,  whither  their 
pilgrimage  was  tending.  Some  have  become  breathless  at 
the  first  glimpse  of  Rome,  "  the  Niobe  of  Nations ;"  others 
have  been  smitten  with  voiceless  expectation  when,  passing 
down  the  Brenta,  the  cry  of  "  Venezia !  Venezia !"  is  heard, 
and  the  City  of  the  Sea  opens  on  their  view  :  more  have 
bowed  their  heads  when  Mecca  met  their  sight  (but  these 
were  turbaned  Hajjis) :  some  have  fallen  on  the  ground  and 
prayed,  with  tears,  when  from  the  rocky  eminences  which 
overhang  the  city  of  David,  they  have  seen  the  Holy 
Sepulchre — it  is  a  pity  that  the  monks  will  shew  more 
than  one,  each  being  exhibited  as  the  undoubted  original. 
Some,  when  the  mighty  avalanche  of  waters  first  met  their 
gaze  at  Niagara,  as  if  the  fountains  of  the  deep  had  burst 


ti 


THE     COMPOSER     OF      POETRY.  151 

their  bounds,  have  silently  shed  unconscious  tears,  awed  bj 
the  mighty  majesty  of  Nature.  But  all  these  were  affected 
raptures  in  comparison  with  what  I  (should  have)  felt  on 
entering  the  interior  of  the  Byronic  bookvendor's  retreat. 
However,  I  may  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  confess  that, 
owing  to  my  intense  curiosity  to  look  upon  the  man,  I  had 
not  presence  of  mind  to  recollect  the  propriety  of  being 
wonderfully  awe-stricken  and  heart-delighted.  I  had  no  time 
for  raptures, 

I  boldly  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  shop.  It  was, 
without  exception,  the  smallest  I  had  ever  set  my  feet  within. 
As  far  as  dimensions  went,  it  was  but  half  a  shade  more 
extensive  than  a  cobbler's  bulk.     But  if,  as  Dr.  Watts  said — 

«'  The  mind's  the  stature  of  the  man," 

the  standard  by  which  he  is  to  be  measured — we  may  safely 
estimate  the  proportions  of  a  bookseller's  shop,  not  by  cubic, 
but  by  mental  measure.  If  so,  although  this  shop  was  not 
very  much  larger  than  the  interior  of  a  six-inside  stage- 
coach, its  moral  dimensions  may  have  been  considerable. 

Not  quite  into  the  middle  of  the  shop.  It  was  already 
half-filled  by  another  person.  So  contracted  was  the  space, 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  to  stand  within  it, 
without  coming  into  bodily  contact  with  the  previous  occu- 
pant. He  evidently  had  been  busily  engaged  upon,  and  had 
just  disposed  of,  a  beef-steak  agreeably  redolent  of  onions? 
and,  at  the  moment  I  first  saw  him,  I  did  not  catch  his 
eye,  because  he  was  deeply  bent  on  an  endeavour  to  behold 
the  bottom  of  a  pot  of  stout  (while  you  live,  always  drink 
malt  liquor  out  of  "its  native  pewter"),  to  which  invigorating 
beverage  he  was  very  heartily  paying  his  devoirs.  When  he 
b&d  finished  his  mighty  draught,  concluding  it  with  a  deep 


152  TRESSILIAN. 

sigli  and  an  empbatic  smack  of  the  lips,  which  might  have 
been  almost  heard  across  the  street,  he  turned  his  head  in 
my  direction,  and  thus  gave  me  a  full  opportunity  of  taking 
his  likeness  at  a  glance. 

lie  was  a  young  man,  somewhat  under  the  middle  size,  and 
wholly  unlike  any  ideal  of  romance  or  mystery.  He  had  a 
large  quantity  of  fair,  sun-burnt  haii',  curly  as  that  of  a 
negro.  The  blemish  of  a  red  stain — one  of  the  wishing- 
spots,  whereof  matrons  speak — extended  over  a  large  portion 
of  one  cheek,  without  much  disfiguring  it.  He  had  bright 
blue  eyes ;  a  broad,  low  forehead ;  full  lips,  and  turned-up 
nose.  He  had  a  bluff,  yeoman-like  air.  His  address 
smacked  of  country  breeding — perfectly  civil,  but  with  a 
dash  of  independence.  I  wondered  how  such  a  man  could 
have  been  a  bookseller,  and  in  London,  too.  He  seemed 
more  adapted  to  follow  the  deer  and  dogs  over  the  green 
glades  than  to  have  his  free  spirit  fret  itself  against  the 
prisoning  bars  of  city  life. 

Not  in  the  slightest  degree  embarrassed  by  my  sudden 
entry  into  his  little  place,  he  announced  himself,  with  some 
ostentation,  as  owner  of  the  shop,  and  informed  me  that  his 
stock-in-trade  consisted  of  the  books  I  had  seen  exhibited  to 
the  inspection  of  the  street  passengers,  and  of  a  portfolio  of 
engravings.  This  portfolio  he  placed  before  me,  and  I  saw 
that  it  contained  a  great  many  illustrations  of  the  life,  travels, 
and  writings  of  liyron — I  should  say,  fully  nineteen-twentieths 
of  all  that  had  been  published  at  home  and  abroad.  The 
walls  of  his  little  room  were  covered  with  larcre  eni^ravincrs — 
all  of  the  same  character.  There  were  a  few  brackets  in  the 
corner,  and  on  them  he  had  mounted  busts  of  Byron.  He 
then  shewed  me  some  of  the  minor  poems,  in  the  poet's  own 
handwriting,  and  exhibited,  with  much  reverence,  a  lock  of 
hair  which,  he  told  me,  had  been   cut  from  Byron's  head, 


THE     COMPOSER     OF     POETRY.  153 

■wliile  his  body  lay  in  state  at  Great  George  street,  West- 
minster, before  it  was  taken  down  to  Hucknall  Church-yard, 
for  interment.  He  quoted  several  passages  from  the  poetry  — 
appearing  familiar  with  the  whole  of  it — and  his  recitation, 
albeit  a  little  too  much  mouthed,  was  spirited,  and  shewed 
appreciation  and  feeling. 

I  could  not  understand  all  of  this.  I  remarked  that  he 
appeared  to  have  a  decided  liking  for  all  things  appertaining 
to  Lord  Byron,  and  a  wonderfully  close  acquaintance  with  his 
writings.  He  replied,  "  Why,  sir,  I  have  every  cause  to  love 
Lord  Byron.  He  was  the  making  of  me  and  mine.  I  am 
his  son." 

Mystery  upon  mystery.  Here  was  a  discovery.  But  I 
made  no  remark,  knowing  of  old,  that  you  run  tjie  chance 
of  marring  a  confession,  by  interrupting  it.  "  Yes,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  I  am  Lord  Byron's  own  godson.  My  father  is  that 
Mr.  Fletcher,  his  valet,  whose  name  so  often  occurs  in  these 
books" — pointing  to  the  two  quartos  of  the  biography, 
by  Moore.  "  My  father  was  the  humble  and  devoted  friend 
and  servant,  to  whom  he  endeavoured  to  speak  his  last 
wishes.     In  that  far-away  country,  it  was  he  who 


'  Sat  by  his  lone  couch,  when  even  the  mind 
Which  swayed  the  world,  was  waTering,  undefined.'  " 


On  further  conversation,  I  found  no  reason  to  doubt  that 
this  really  was  the  eldest  son  of  faithful  Fletcher,  and  the 
namesake  and  godchild  of  the  great  poet,  whose  fame  fills 
the  world. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  been  born  on  tlie  Newstead 
property,  and  it  was  not  of  the  dull  routine  of  every-day 
thought  and  action,  to  see  the  tears  stream  down  his  cheeks, 
as,  with  all  the  natural  eloquence  of  overflowing  gratitude, 

7* 


154  ..'         TRESSILIAN.  r"' 

lie  spoke  of  tbe  favours  his  family  had  received  from  Byron. 
In  reply  to  my  enquiry  respecting  his  father,  the  faithful 
Fletcher,  he  told  me  that  as  Lord  Byron's  will  had  not  made 
any  provision  for  him,  Byron's  dear  sister  Augusta  had  done 
for  him  what  she  could — which,  however,  was  not  much.  He 
wrote  me  his  address,  "Mr.  Fletcher,  3,  Charles  street, 
Berkeley  square,"  where  he  was  in  business  as  a  vender  of 
vermicelli,  and  such  culinary  nick-nacks.*  The  handwriting 
of  the  younger  Fletcher  corroborated  the  theory,  that  cha- 
racter and  temperament  may  often  be  predicted  from  the 
caligraphy  of  individuals.  The  writing  was  a  bold,  clear, 
round-text — exactly  such  as  might  be  looked  for  from  a 
yeoman,  I  should  have  been  greatly  disappointed  if  it  had 
been  thin,  and  wiry,  and  angular,  like  that  of  a  boarding- 
school  Miss  or  a  petit  maitre. 

By  this  time,  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  with  my  curiosity  as 
much  disappointed  as  gratified,  I  was  quitting  the  place, 
expressing  my  intention  of  purchasing  one  of  the  books. 
But  Fletcher  contrived  to  raise  some  objection  in  every 
instance.  He  feared  that  this  work  was  as  good  as  sold — 
that  the  other  was  not  quite  perfect — that  a  third  should  be 
sent  to  the  binder.  I  saw,  in  short,  that  he  really  was 
unwilling  to  part  with  any  of  his  stock-in-trade.  Therefore, 
promising  to  call  again,  I  was  departing,  when  respectfully 
soliciting  future  favours,  he  put  one  of  Iiis  own  cards  into  my 
hand.     I  have  carefully  preserved  it,  and  here  it  is : — 

*  "After  all  liis  adventures  by  flood  and  field,  short  commons  included,  this 
humble  Achates  of  the  poet  has  now  established  himself  as  the  keeper  of  an  Italian 
warehouse,  in  Charles  street,  Berkeley  square,  where,  if  he  does  not  thrive,  every 
one  who  knows  any  thing  of  his  character  will  say  he  deserves  to  do."— Murray's 
Ed.  of  Byron.,  vol.  viii.  p.  19.  Unfortunately  he  did  not  thrive,  for  he  passed 
through  the  Insolvent  Debtor's  Court,  in  June,  1837.  Immediately  after,  a  sub- 
scription  was  set  on  foot  for  him,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Murray,  which  did  not 
yield  much.    He  died,  in  November,  lb39,  in  distressed  circumstances. 


THE      COMPOSER      OF      POETRY.  155 


GEORGE    FLETCHER, 

BOOKSELLER,   PRINTSELLER,   STATIONER, 

65  WYCH  STREET,  DRURY  LANE, 

OPPOSITE     THE     OLYMPIC. 


Composer  of  Poetry,  as  adjunct  to  the  bookselling  and 
stationery  business,  was  a  novelty,  although  it  certainly  is  as 
correct  as  "  Composer  of  Music."  I  asked  to  see  some  of  his 
productions.  He  briskly  opened  a  desk — the  place  was  too 
small  for  a  drawer — and  handed  from  it  a  pamphlet  contain- 
ing some  rhymes,  very  indifierently  printed  on  paper  to 
match. 

The  svibject  of  these  verses  was  Reform — a  stirring  question 
about  that  period.  I  had  not  time  to  read  the  poem  then, 
so,  seeing,  "  price  sixpence  "  imprinted  on  the  cover,  I  produced 
that  coin,  laid  it  down,  and  was  pocketing  my  purchase,  when 
the  Composer  told  me  he  could  not  part  with  that  copy,  as  it 
was  the  last  of  two  editions  of  five  hundred  each,  and  he 
must  retain  it,  to  have  a  third  edition  printed  therefrom.  In 
a  few  days,  he  said,  he  should  have  this  new  issue  ready. 

Thus  it  happened  that  I  did  not  become  the  possessor  of 
this  literary  gem.  I  have  lamented,  ever  since,  that  I  had 
not  time  to  give  it  a  perusal  on  the  spot.  My  memory  of 
odd  things  is  so  very  tenacious,  that  I  ought  have  carried  oflF 
ten    or   a   dozen  of   the   fifty  stanzas  of   this   brochure.     I 


156  •    '  TKESSILIAN.  ^    ,     • 

recollect,  however,   that  one  verse  was   somewhat   to   this 
effect : — 

"  And,  ■when  the  Nation  came  to  see 
What  a  great  Reform  there  would  be, 
They  were  as  glad  as  any  thing, 
And  blessed  the  Queen  and  also  the  King." 

Something  in  the  same  vein  were  verses  which  "  a  Com- 
poser of  Poetry,"  at  Aberdeen,  named  John  Davidson,  pub- 
lished on  the  same  subject,  at  the  same  time : — 

"  'Tis  true  we  live  in  Aberdeen, 
'  A  northern  city  cold; 

But  that  our  hearts  are  true  to  him 
King  Wil-li-am  hath  been  told." 

Mr.  Fletcher,  to  eke  out  the  sixteen  pages  of  his  publi- 
cation, had  added  a  few  Miscellanies.  I  remember  the 
opening  stanza  of  a  "  Poem  on  Mr.  Green's  Balloon  ascent,  at 
Nottingham,  in  September,  1826."     It  is  this: — 

"  That  moment  was  an  awful  hour 
To  all  in  hall,  in  court,  in  bower, 
■Wlien  up,  in  beauty,  to  the  sky. 
Like  a  beautiful  bird,  the  balloon  did  fly. 
In  all  my  days  I  never  seen 
A  bolder  man  than  Mr.  Green. 
I  wish  he  may  have,  with  my  praise, 
A  happy  end,  and  length  of  days." 

To  what  Sterne  called  "  the  cant  of  criticism,"  I  leave  the 
smile  at  poor  Flet(;her's  confounding  the  duration  of  a 
"moment"  with  an  "hour."  The  same  word-picking  may 
decide  how,  except  by  poetic  license,  the  adventurous 
aeronaut  was  first  to  have  a  "  happy  end,"  and  then  the  boon 
of-  "  length  of  days."  The  Composer  certainly  had  not  heard 
of  the  itinerant  preacher  who,  when  discoursing  on  the  goodness 
of  Providence,  said — "  But,  my  brethren,  even  Death  itself 


THE      COMPOSKR     OF     POETRY.  157 

which  for  our  many  offences,  we  all  have  merited,  Providence 
has  wisely  and  kindly  placed  at  the  end  of  our  lives:  for, 
oh  !  what  would  Life  be  worth,  if  Death  was  at  the  begin- 
ning T'  In  the  same  discourse,  the  preacher  made  the  naive 
remark — "It  is  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  goodness  of 
Providence,  that  large  rivers  invariably  flow  by  large  towns." 

The  perusal  of  Lord  Byron's  works  had  not  made  a  poet 
of  his  valet's  first-born. 

A  week  or  two  after  my  interview  with  this  "  Composer  of 
Poetry,"  I  again  went  to  his  residence.  I  found  the  shop 
closed,  and  no  one  could  inform  me  what  had  become  of  the 
occupant.  Fletcher  had  given  up  business — if  ever  he  had 
any — and  yet  the  bustle  of  London  went  on  as  usual.  A 
great  luminary  had  departed  from  Wych  street,  Drury  lane. 
This  is  the  last  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of  the  Composer  of 
Poetry. 


158  -  TRESSILIAN. 

"It  grieved  me,  I  assure  you,"  said  Butler,  "to  have 
unluckily  missed  the  opportunity  of  cultivating  my  acquaint- 
ance with  this  '  Composer  of  Poetry.'  There  was  a  rough, 
honest  independence  about  him  which,  in  the  wilderness  of 
London,  was  quite  startling.  His  was  a  firm  belief  that  he 
actually  had  great  poetical  genius;  and  yet,  despite  this 
glaring  defect  of  judgment,  he  understood  and  was  familiar 
with  the  writings  of  Byron.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  had 
read  other  authors,  but  nobody  could  doubt  that  he  had 
studied,  and  could  appreciate  the  author  of  Childe  Harold. 
It  was  as  if  a  diamond  merchant  should  have  exquisite  appre- 
ciation of  gems  possessed  by  others,  yet  fancy  that  his  own 
bits  of  paste  were  stones  of  the  first  water.  Account  for  it 
who  can  :  it  puzzles  me." 

"  It  only  shows,"  remarked  our  Irish  friend,  "  that  there  are 
more  things  in  earth  and  heaven  than  ^jour  philosophy  hath 
dreamed  of.  It  would  have  rewarded  your  pains  had  you 
traced  out  this  man,  and  ascertained  the  causes  which  had 
made  his  judgment  of  other  men's  writings  so  vastly  superior 
to  his  exaggerated  estimate  of  his  own.  The  anomaly 
appears  remarkably  curious.  To  think  so  accurately,  and 
write  so  wretchedly — to  have  lighted  his  lamp  by  the  pure 
lustre  of  Byron's  genius,  and  fed  it  with  the  commonest 
whale-oil  of  his  own  mind — to  have  a  true  appreciation  of 
what  the  greatest  genius  of  our  time  has  written,  and  yet  to 
cling  with  egotistical  satisfaction  to  the  inanity  which  his 
own  pen  produced — these  things  show  a  peculiarity  of  mental 
oi-ganization  which  it  w^ould  have  been  curious  to  have 
analyzed." 

"  I  assure  you,"  replied  Butler,  "  that  I  '  nothing  exagge- 
rate, nor  set  down  aught  in  malice,'  respecting  the  man.  I 
s);eak  of  him  as  I  found  him — enthusiastically  attached  to  the 
memory  of  Byron,  capable  of  delicately  appreciating  the 


VICINITY      OF     MATLOCK.  159 

immortal  poetry  of  that  immortal  mind,  and  yet,  -when 
attempting  to  imitate  it,  producing  not  merely  what  was 
common-place  and  tame,  but  such  doggrel  as  the  ballad- 
mongers  of  the  Seven  Dials  would  have  perused  with  scorn." 


This  was  the  last  story  related  on  our  first  evening  at 
Matlock,  The  ladies  retired,  and  we,  who  remained,  held  a 
council  as  to  the  best  mode  of  spending  the  morrow.  My 
own  local  knowledge  was  of  some  advantage  in  fixing  the 
programme.  "With  vehicles  and  horses  at  command,  we  were 
within  accessible  distance  of  a  variety  of  places  well  worth 
seeing. 

North  of  Matlock  are  many  points  which  may  be  plea- 
surably  visited.  At  the  extremity  of  Darley  Dale  is  that 
admirable  inn,  the  "  Peacock,"  at  Rowsley,  which  is  reached 
after  traversing  from  Matlock  through  the  beautiful  valley  of 
the  Derwent — the  transition  from  the  majestic  grandeur  of 
the  Tors  at  Matlock,  and  the  far-extending  valley  in  which 
Rowsley  stands,  being  not  the  least  remarkable.  Through  it 
now  runs  a  Railway,  which  changes  the  peculiar  character  of 
the  scene,  while  it  certainly  makes  it  more  accessible  to  the 
many  than  it  was  in  the  time  when  I  first  knew  it.  But  not 
even  "improvement"  can  wholly  destroy  the  beauty  of  such 
places.  The  confluence  of  the  Wye  with  the  Derwent,  which 
artists  have  loved  to  sketch,  and  travellers  have  delighted  to 
admire,  remains — the  windings  of  the  river  are  unchanged — 
the  view  up  the  valley  of  the  Derwent,  from  Rowsley  Bridge, 
continues  to  attract  admiration — and,  within  a  few  paces  of 
the  bridge,  still  flourishes  the  "  Peacock,"  which  looks  rather 
like  such  a  residence  as  a  country  gentleman  would  have 
reared  in  the  Elizabethan  reign,  than  an  inn  in  the  heart  of 


160  TRESSILIAN. 

a  romantic  district.  Within  the  last  thirty  years,  how 
many  distinguished  men  have  sojourned  in  that  comfortable 
hostelrie !  Artists  and  statesmen,  botanists  and  geologists — 
men  of  letters  and  science — black-letter  lawyers  and  grave 
physicians,  have  resorted  thither;  for  the  brethren  of  the 
angle  abound  in  all  professions,  and  the  trout  and  the  grey- 
lings  in  the  Derwent  and  the  Wye  are  numerous  enough  for 
all  who  cast  the  line.  After  the  day's  employment — self- 
imposed  tasks  which  are  relaxations  to  minds  ordinarily 
occupied  with  grave  and  pressing  thought — to  come  home 
to  the  pleasant  hospitality  which  "The  Peacock"  aflfords  to 
all  who  pay  (nor  need  the  purse  be  very  heavy  there),  is  the 
very  height  of  rational  enjoyment,  and  enviable  by  those 
Avho  unfortunately,  are  in  populous  city  pent,  by  occupations 
which  admit  of  scanty  holidays. 

Nearly  half-way  between  "  The  Peacock  "  at  Rowsley,  and 
the  old  town  of  Bakewell  (built  a  thousand  years  ago,  by  the 
Saxon  King  Edward),  it  is  as  well  to  turn  aside  and  visit 
Haddon  Hall.  The  rich  pasturage  of  the  Vale  of  Haddon 
sweeps  between  the  two  places,  and,  in  the  centre,  on  a  hill 
which  abruptly  rises  from  the  Wye,  stands  Haddon  Hall, 
Avhicli,  seen  through  the  trees  by  which  it  is  surrounded, 
appears  to  realize  the  idea  which  the  mind  forms  of  one  of 
the  ancient  fortalices,  in  which  the  baron  sought  refuge  from 
the  encroachments  of  the  monarch,  and  from  which  he  some- 
times hurled  defiance  at  the  kingly  power.  Here,  in  the  olden 
time,  those  Vernons — whose  wealth  and  power,  caused  tliem 
to  be  called  "  Kings  of  the  Peak " — lived  in  hospitable 
solendour.  Here  are  still  retained  evidences  of  the  mafjnifi- 
cent  manner  in  which  these  lords  of  the  ancient  time  kept 
house.  But,  in  the  imperishable  pages  of  Scott,  the  past  has 
been  made  to  live  again,  and  the  best  idea  of  Haddon,  next 
to  what  can  be  obtained  from  personal  observation,  is  to  be 


11  ADDON      HALL.  161 

found  in  liis  Peveril  of  the  Peak,  the  Martindale  Hall  of 
which  is  but  a  description  of  the  more  striking  points  of 
Iladdon.  The  great  liall  with  its  oaken  wainscot,  capacious 
fire-place,  and  raised  dais — the  dining-room,  with  its  quaint 
carvings,  oak  panels,  and  rich  gildings — the  drawing-room  with 
its  curious  tapestry — the  immense  gallery  (with  its  floor  made 
from  planks  out  of  a  single  oak),  which  was  honoured,  it  is 
said,  by  Queen  Elizabeth's  "treading  a  measure"  in  it,  at  the  ball 
given  when  it  was  opened — the  antique  gardens — the  terraces 
— the  lime-tree  avenue — and,  to  crown  all,  the  beautiful 
views  from  the  summit  of  the  Eagle  Tower,  form  a  combina- 
tion of  attractions,  such  as  are  rarely  to  be  met,  and,  in  truth, 
are  almost  peculiar  to  Iladdon.  The  novelist,  the  painter,  the 
poet,  and  the  antiquarian,  have  found  something  wonderfully 
suggestive  in  Iladdon  Hall,  and  good  feeling,  as  well  as  good 
taste,  has  been  shown  by  the  Manners  family  (to  whom  it 
came  by  intermarriage  with  the  Vernons),  in  carefully  keep- 
ing it  up,  even  as  we  see  it  now.  Appropriately,  therefore, 
do  the  peacock,  the  crest  of  the  Manners,  and  the  boar's 
head,  that  of  the  Vernons,  conjunctively  meet  the  eye  in  the 
principal  apartments  of  that  stately  building.  It  is  almost 
desolate  now,  for  the  Duke  of  Rutland  prefers  Belvoir  Castle, 
in  Leicestersliire,  with  its  more  modern  appliances  for 
comfort ;  and  indeed,  it  may  be  doubted,  whether  it  does  not 
impress  the  mind  more  effectually  in  its  deserted  state,  than 
if  it  were  crowded  with  the  "  troops  of  friends  "  who  might 
be  attracted  there  by  modern  hospitality.  Unless  the  ancient 
apparel,  arms,  and  attendants  could  be  brought  back  into  the 
ancient  Hall,  there  would  be  that  incongruity  which  invariably 
arises  from  the  admixture  of  new  and  antique  things  and 
persons.  As  it  is,  Haddon  Hall  is  one  of  the  best  relics  of 
the  olden  time  in  England — it  is  at  once  interesting  and 


162  TRESSILIAN. 

picturesque,  and  to  have   seen  it  is  something  which  one 
■would  not  willingly  have  missed. 

Within  so  easy  a  distance  of  Haddon,  that  a  pedestrian 
can  cover  the  ground  in  less  than  an  hour,  even  if  he  walk 
by  the  winding  margin  of  the  Derwent,  stands  Chatsworth, 
"  The  Palace  of  the  Peak  " — as  it  was  called  long  before  it 
deserved  the  appellation  so  well  as  it  does  now.  We  resolved 
to  visit  both  places,  the  next  day,  to  contrast  the  massive 
grandeur  of  the  old  baronial  hall,  with  the  magnificence  of 
the  new  and  splendid  palace. 

Our  whole  party  started,  soon  after  breakfast,  for  Haddon, 
which  we  examined  with  great  pleasure  and  admiration. 
Returning  to  "  The  Peacock  "  at  Rowsley,  we  had  personal 
experience,  by  means  of  an  abundant  luncheon,  that  fame 
had  not  over-rated  the  goodness  of  the  "  creature  comforts " 
which  were  there  supplied. 

Leaving  our  vehicles  at  Rowsley,  we  went  to  Chatsworth, 
on  foot,  by  the  side  of  the  Derwent — a  charming  walk,  which 
leads  quite  into  Chatsworth  Park.  What  occasion  is  there 
to  describe  what  pen  and  pencil  have  so  often,  and  so  well 
delineated  ? 

The  contrast  between  Haddon  and  Chatsworth  struck  us,  as 
it  strikes  every  one,  as  a  contrast  between  the  Past  and  the 
Present.  If  the  picturesque  antiquity  of  one  edifice  be 
charming,  not  less  pleasing  is  the  modern  refinement  of  the 
other.  To  me,  Chatsworth  was  a  familiar  place,  for  I  had 
often  visited  it — not  only  in  the  ordinary  manner,  by  payment 
of  the  usually  expected  douceur,  but  by  invitation,  when  the 
Duchess  of  Kent  was  a  guest,  in  company  with  her  youthful 
daughter,  the  then  Princess  Victoria.  On  that  occasion,  the 
state  apartments  had  been  thrown  open  en  suite,  and — stretch- 
ing as  they  do  through  the  whole  length  of  that  palatial 


THE      PALACE      Of      THE      I'EAK.  1G3 

mansion — a  vista  of  between  seven  and  eight  hundred  feet 
•was  formed.  There — with  brilliant  lights,  attendants  in 
gorgeous  Hveries,  guests  sparkling  with  jewels,  nnisic  breath- 
ing melody  throughout  the  evening,  and  the  adornments  of 
the  rooms  rich  beyond  even  our  ideas  of  Eastern  luxury — 
the  future  Queen  of  England,  then  a  child  of  some  thirteen 
years,  sate  as  the  guest  of  one  of  England's  richest  and  most 
exalted  nobles.  Nor  were  the  adornments  of  these  rooms 
such  as  mere  wealth  could  produce.  A  pervading  and 
intellectual  spirit  had  presided  over  all  ;  statues,  vases, 
pictures,  books,  and  a  varied  collection  of  other  articles  of 
art  and  vertu  bearing  testimony  to  the  taste  as  well  as  the 
fortune  of  their  possessor. 

Our  Matlock  party,  thanks  to  my  own  previous  knowledge 
of  Chatsworth,  loitered  through  its  noble  apartments,  and 
rich  galleries,  without  being  compelled  to  depend  on  the 
information  supplied  by  the  persons  who  usually  showed  the 
place. 

The  great  Conservatory  was  not  then  wholly  completed, 
but,  in  a  building  containing  rare  plants  and  flowers,  were 
then  to  be  seen  bassi-relievi  of  Morning  and  Night,  by 
Thorwaldsen.  The  Sculpture  Gallery  already  contained 
many  beautiful  specimens  of  Art,  among  which  is  Canova's 
colossal  bust  of  Napoleon,  which,  more  than  any  other,  gives 
Q.full  idea  of  the  mental  capacity  of  him  who  was  legislator, 
as  well  as  soldier  and  sovereign.  There,  too  (also  from 
Canova's  hand),  we  saw  the  sitting  statue  of  Napoleon's  Mother 
— worthy  of  him,  the  greatest  man,  all  points  considered, 
who  ever  rose,  and  reigned,  and  fell. 

We  lingered  on  those  terraces  which  the  fairy  feet  of 
lovely  and  unfortunate  Mary  Stuart  had  so  often  trod.  We 
traversed  the  splendid  gardens,  in  which,  thanks  to  wealth 
and  Paiton,  the  entire  vegetable  world  appears  to  be  repre- 


164:  T  U  E  SS  I  L  I  A  N. 

sented.  "We  lost  ourselves  amid  tlie  leafy  -woods  and  the 
romantic  glades,  startling  the  bright-eyed  fawns  in  their 
resting-places.  We  saw  the  play  of  the  ailificial  waterfall, 
and  the  upward  spring  of  the  fountains,  breaking  into  spray 
above  the  trees,  and  falling  like  shattered  diamonds  when 
viewed  between  the  sunshine.  We  narrowly  escaped  a 
sprinkling  from  the  artificial  willow-tree,  which,  when  the 
spirit  of  mischievous  frolic  is  predominant,  scatters  thousands 
of  water-drops  from  its  hollow  leaves  and  branches.  As  our  feet 
pressed  the  velvet  and  elastic  sward  of  that  rich  demesne,  we 
could  fully  appreciate  the  delicate  truth  and  gallantry  of  the 
farewell  compliment  spoken  to  a  former  Duke  of  Devonshire, 
by  Marshal  Tallard  (whom  the  great  Marlborough  had  taken 
prisoner  at  Blenheim),  "that  all  the  time  he  had  spent  at 
Chatsworth,  he  should  not  think  of  counting  as  part  of  his 
captivity  in  England." 

Sauntering  back  to  "  The  Peacock,"  we  reached  Matlock 
at  too  late  an  hour  for  an  advanced  sitting,  and  too  mucli 
overcome  with  pleasant  fatigue  for  any  enjoyment  except 
repose.  So,  deciding  on  having  the  morrow  as  a  day  of  rest, 
we  had  no  story-telling  that  night,  but  each  sought  his 
pillow,  thereon  to  hope  for  *'  rosy  dreams  and  slumbers  light." 


THE      DIVAN.  165 


THE    DIYAN. 

What  a  contrast  to  the  bright  and  glad  yesterday  did  the 
next  day  present  1  Fierce  sunshine  out  of  doors,  dullness 
■within,  and  (as  this  last  is  an  epidemic),  the  whwle  party 
suffering  from  ennui.  Books  lay  upon  the  table — no  one  felt 
disposed  to  read  them.  The  newspapers  had  arrived — soon 
condemned  for  not  containing  intelligence.  The  harp  was 
out  of  tune — what  matter,  when  neither  of  the  ladies  was 
inclined  to  wake  its  slumbering  soul  of  song.  The  Artist's 
portfolio  was  there — for  the  first  time,  its  treasures  were 
unheeded.  The  Novelist  was  silent — thinking,  perhaps,  how 
he  should  dispose  of  his  characters  in  a  picturesque  tableau, 
for  the  closing  chapters  of  his  next  fiction.  The  Irish  gentle- 
man was  out  of  spirits,  and  looked  as  if — he  could  not  help 
it.  The  Major  was  musing — perhaps  planning  how  best  to 
carry  on  a  campaign  against  the  widow's  heart  and  hand. 
Sir  Julian  was  reported  to  be  writing  letters  in  another  room 
— happy  man,  to  have  any  thing  seriously  to  occupy  him. 
The  ladies  were  silently  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  some 
of  the  nick-nackeries  on  which  the  fair  sex  so  often  delight  to 
waste  their  time  and  to  expend  their  ingenuity.  The  very 
lap-dogs  basked  in  the  sun,  as  the  newspaper  paragraph- 
makers  say,  lazily  resting  in  "  the  arms  of  Morpheus." 

Thus  it  was  within  doors.  There  was  not  much  difference 
outside — save,  that  there  was  a  trifle  more  air,  a  little  less 
shade.     The  day  was  intensely  hot,  as  if  it  had  been  one  of 


166  TRESSILIAN. 

tlie  dog-days,  rather  than  a  morning  in  May,  for  scarcely  did 
a  wandering  zephyr  venture  out  to  whisper  through  the  leafy 
trees.  Below,  the  river  murmured  by  in  a  quiet  sleepiness, 
more  akin  to  stillness  than  to  sound.  The  hum  of  the  bees, 
the  monotonous  cawing  of  the  rooks,  the  tinkling  of  sheep- 
bells  in  the  distance,  and,  now  and  then,  the  spring-bird 
calling  "  Cuckoo !  Cuckoo !"  were  the  only  sounds  abroad. 
All  appeared  like  the  essence  of  dreamy  inaction.  Never 
before,  had  I  seen,  in  England  (and  ere  the  summer  had  fully 
set  in,  too),  a  day  which  bore  so  close  a  resemblance  to  an 
autumnal  one  within  the  tropics.  Of  course,  we  anticipated  a 
magnificent  thunder-storm,  with  sheeted  lightning,  and  an 
inundation.  There  came  neither  thunder,  lightning,  nor 
rain  :  we  had  nothing  but  ennui  and  extra  summer-heat. 

How  unlike  the  rural  mirth  of  yesterday,  when  innocent 
Enjoyment  had  a  thousand  voices — when  Pleasure  scattered 
many  a  delight  from  her  starry  diadem — when  the  flush  of 
Joy  added  new  charms  to  the  cheek  of  Beauty  —  when 
lips  which  were  wont  to  be  silent  were  made  eloquent  by  the 
delicious  excitement  of  the  moment — when  bright-eyed  Hope 
shed  her  smiles  in  such  wild  profusion,  that  some  of  them  fell 
like  pleasant  balm,  upon  the  hearts  of  the  thoughtful — when 
the  blood  ran  through  the  veins  with  a  quicker  flow  than  in 
the  every  day  stagnation  of  what  we  miscall  Life — when  the 
joy-crowned  goblet  of  present  Delight  passed  from  lip  to  lip, 
and  the  nectareous  draught  gratified  without  maddening  the 
senses.  J^ow  ! — the  means  of  enjoyment  were  the  same,  but 
the  prevailing  spirit  that  had  sparkled  was  evaporated.  There 
■was  as  much  difference  between  yesterday's  enjoyment,  and 
to-day's  dullness,  as  between  the  ocean,  stirred  by  the  strong 
breeze  which  the  manner  loves,  sendinof  a  thousand  richlv- 
freighted  argosies  to  their  destined  and  distant  ports,  and  the 
calm   lake,  in  the  midst  of  some   stately  pleasure-grounds, 


WANDERINGS.  167 

without  a  breath  of  wind  to  crisp  its  glassy  surface,  or  ruflfle 
its  glassy  smoothness.  Who,  with  a  heart  to  feel,  but  would 
prefer  the  one,  even  with  its  chance  of  peril,  to  the  safe  but 
monotonous  calmness  of  the  other ! 

The  forenoon  passed,  as  heavily  as  can  be  imagined.     Con- 
versation was  an  effort,  and  indeed,  all  exercise  of  mind  or 
body  appeared  alike  unpleasant.     It  wanted  some  hours  to 
dinner — that   grand    epoch   in    the   daily  life    of    true-born 
Englishmen.     We  should  have  been  in  despair,  if — all  of  us 
feeling  the  pervading  dullness,  while  none  of  us  made  au 
effort  to  dispel  it — Tressilian  had  not  entered  the  room.     He 
informed  us  that,  after  writing  his  letters,  he  had  gone  out 
and  sauntered  by  the  banks  of  the  river,  getting  into  the 
shade  as  much  as  possible,  and  thus  found  it  not  so  oppres- 
sively warm  out  of  doors  as  he  had  anticipated — that  he  had 
found  the  most  enviable  coolness  in  half-an-hour's  visit  to  the 
Rutland  Cavern,  with  Bryant  for  his  escort — that,  on  the 
strong    recommendation    of    that   worthy,    who    had    even 
volunteered  his  companionship,  he  had  entrusted  his  person 
to  a  sort  of  pony-chaise,  curiously  contrived  with  the  merest 
apology  for   springs,   and,   passing   through    Cromford,   had 
adventured  as  far  as  Wirksvvorth,  the  ancient  capital  of  the 
Roman  mining  district  of  the  Low  Peak — that  there  he  had 
seen  the  brass  dish,  chained  up  in  the  Moot  Hall,  which,  by 
the  statute  of  Henry  VHI.,  is  still  the  standard  measure  for 
lead  ore  in  the  Peak  district — that,  while  refreshments  were 
getting  ready  at  the  Red  Lion,  they  had  visited  Stonnis — that 
there,  on  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  a  very  high  hill,  from  out 
the  fissures  of  which  spring  multitudinous  pines,  they  had 
ascended  a  pile  of  great  blocks  of  stone,  from  the  summit  of 
which  he  had  a  view  as  striking  as  any  in  the  county  of 
Derby,  the  prospect  stretching  far  around,  and  embracing  a 
variety  of  scenery  at  once  varied  and  rich — and  that,  finally, 


1G8  TRESSILIAN. 

as  we  might  see,  he  had  returned  full  of  life  and  spirits,  to 
wonder  at  our  being  dull  and  subdued  by  the  imps  called 
'^blue." 

We  wondered,  as  the  Spanish  sages  did  when  Columbus 
made  the  egg  stand,  how  none  of  us  had  happened  to  think 
of  such  an  expedient,  as  he  had  found,  for  passing  the  time. 

"  Confess,"  said  he,  "  that  you  are  ennuye.  What  aggra- 
vates the  disease  is,  you  yield  to  it.  Learn,  that  the  slightest 
effort  of  will  suffices  to  dethrone  this  incubus  of  the  mind. 
If  you  should  happen  to  die  now,  a  reflective  jury  would  be 
justified  in  delivering  a  verdict  of,  '  Died  from  want  of  excite- 
ment.' Play — walk — read — dance — even  have  a  game  of 
blindman's  buff  on  this  hot  day,  rather  than  sit  like  so  many 
inhabitants  of  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  Breathe,  as  I  have 
done,  the  fresh  air  which  continually  passes  over  the  Derby- 
shire hills,  and  wonder  how,  in  the  midst  of  scenery  so 
romantic,  you  could  ever  have  permitted  ennui  to  enter.  If 
you  think  the  day  too  warm  for  out-of-door  exercise — though 
I  have  taken  and  managed  to  survive  it — try  such  a  course 
of  mental  excitement  within  doors,  as  will  keep  your  faculties 
on  the  qui  vive,  without  fatiguing  them," 

The  advice  was  excellent,  but  we  confessed  our  inability, 
on  the  instant,  to  know  exactly  how  to  act  upon  it, 

"  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,"  said  Sir  Julian,  "  that  you  are 
perfectly  unconscionable.  It  yet  wants  some  houi's  to  dinner, 
and  none  of  you  appear  to  know  how  the  time  is  to  be  wiled 
away  before  that  welcome  event  comes  off.  Newspapers  you 
cannot  read — sketches  you  do  not  look  at — music  you  will 
not  hear — skill  at  chess  you  care  not  to  exercise — luck  at  old- 
fashioned  backgammon  you  will  not  try — why  not,  in  such  a 
dead  lock,  resume  what  we  commenced  so  satisfactorily  on 
the  first  day  of  our  sojourn  hero  ?  Lady  Morton  has  heard 
our  stories,  and  has  been  duly  edified  by  them,  no  doubt :  let 


THE      PATRIARCH     FREE.  169 

me  suggest  that,  in  return,  she  shall  now  contribute  some 
narrative  of  her  own  ;  and  if — as  we  have  somewhat  run  inta 
personal  confidences — she  will  do  us  the  additional  favour  of 
being  the  heroine  of  her  own  tale,  I  venture  to  say  that  it 
will  be  the  more  acceptable.  I  could  swear,  in  any  court  of 
Romance  in  Christendom,  that  she  has  not  passed  thus  far 
through  life — though  she  yet  lingers  on  the  threshold  of 
youth — without  some  adventure  worth  listening  to." 

Lady  Morton — after  some  pretty  protestations,  like  those  of 
Canning's  Weary  Knife-Grinder,  which  went  for  nothing — 
protested  that  it  was  difficult  to  sit  within  doors,  on  such  a 
day,  and  impossible  to  speak.  At  another  opportunity,  she 
would  cheerfully  become  a  story-teller  for  our  gratification ; 
but  it  was  really  impracticable  at  present. 

Sir  Julian,  the  Major,  and  the  Irishmen,  were  here  observed 
to  lay  their  heads  together  in  grave  and  momentous  consulta- 
tion. Presently,  the  trio  quitted  the  apartment.  Half  an 
hour  afterwards,  the  Major  returned,  and  communicated  the 
result  of  their  thought  and  action. 

The  New  Bath  Hotel,  at  which  our  party  stopped,  is  one 
of  the  prettiest  places  of  public  accommodation  in  England. 

In  front,  there  is  a  capacious  esplanade,  stretching  the 
whole  length  of  the  building  and  its  extensive  garden.  The 
house  itself  consists  of  a  centre  and  two  wings.  The  gardens, 
which  are  of  some  extent,  and  tastefully  laid  out,  are  to  the 
north  of  the  building.  There  is  an  artificial  piece  of  water  in 
this  garden,  near  which  a  patriarchal  lime-tree — certainly 
more  than  six  hundred  years  old,  according  to  Rhodes'  "Peak 
Scenery  " — as  fine  as  any  of  those  which  are  the  boast  of 
Oxford,  spreads  out  its  leafy  canopy. 

Underneath  this  great  tree,  and  so  arranged  as  to  give  the 
full  benefit  of  its  shade,  the  Major,  drawing  on  his  recollec- 
tion of  former  bivouacs  in  the  Peninsula,  had  contrived  to 

8 


170  TRESSILIAN. 

erect  as  good  a  substitute  for  a  tent,  as  the  combined  still  of 
himself  and  Lis  friends  hud  been  able  to  improvise.  It  was 
sufficient  to  exclude  the  gaze  of  the  curious  spectators  in 
front ;  and  with  the  help  of  ottomans,  sofa-cushions,  rugs,  and 
cloaks,  it  was  a  very  pleasant  combination  of  gipsyism,  al 
fresco,  with  some  of  the  aids  and  appliances  of  Eastern  ease. 
So  well  had  the  ladies'  comforts  been  cared  for,  that  even  a 
Psyche  had  been  brought  down,  and  placed — as  a  rejlective 
companion — in  the  situation  best  adapted  for  imaging  their 
features.  To  this  place  the  ladies  were  now  duly  conducted 
by  the  Major,  that  pleasure  and  honour  being  conceded  to 
him  as  the  suggester  of  the  pis-aller,  which  he  dignified,  for 
the  nonce,  with  the  name  of  The  Divan.  Here,  too,  he  had 
taken  care  to  provide  refreshments — fruit,  wine,  and  cakes. 
Here,  also,  he  told  us,  he  fancied  that  Lady  Morton,  with  the 
blue  sky  in  view,  and  as  much  fresh  air  about  her  as  could 
by  any  possibility  be  obtained,  might  be  able  to  perform  her 
promise,  and  indulge  her  friends  with  the  expected  narrative. 

The  attentive  kindness  which  had  made  all  of  these  out-of- 
door  arrangements,  and  so  evidently  for  her  accommodation, 
met  with  its  reward  in  a  very  sweet  smile,  and  Lady  Morton 
expressed  herself  quite  ready  to  gratify  us. 

Premising  that  she  was  a  lively,  agreeable  woman,  with 
quick  and  intelligent  dark  eyes,  and  pretty  coral  lips,  half 
concealing  the  whitest  teeth  I  ever  saw — that  her  features, 
though  not  what  any  one,  except  a  lover,  would  call  beautiful, 
or  even  handsome,  were  strikingly  spirituelle — that  her  voice 
was  sweet  as  the  song  of  a  nightingale — and  that  her  years 
were  yet  very  distant  from  the  "  certain  age  "  which  women 
have  a  horror  of  approaching — it  may  be  imagined  that  we 
were  disposed  to  listen  and  be  pleased.  The  cerulean 
imps,  whose  unwelcome  presence  had  so  much  annoyed  us, 
vanished  from  that  moment. 


LADY     MORTON.  171 

Grouped  there,  like  the  listeners  in  the  garden  of  Boccaccio 
around  one  of  tlie  story-tellers  of  the  "  Decameron,"  we 
awaited  the  promised  narrative ;  and  our  expectancy  was  the 
more  keen,  because  we  were  to  hear  a  personal  adventure, 
and  a  true  one — so  ran  the  implied  compact.  After  an 
inconsiderable  pause,  during  which  the  fair  lady  seemed  to  be 
collecting  and  arranging  her  remembrances,  she  thus  related 
her  narrative,  to  an  audience  as  attentive  as  ever  listened  to 
an  Oriental  story-teller,  full  of  reminiscences, 

"After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
And  humour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid." 


1'72  TRESBILIAK. 


THE    HEIKESS. 

Story  !  I  have  none.  I  am  simply  a  woman,  and  not  a 
heroine.  I  can  boast  of  no  hair-breadth  'scapes.  T  have  had 
no  adventures.  I  have  been  a  stay-at-home  traveller  most  of 
my  days.  I  have  led  a  calm,  quiet,  lady-like  life,  and  have 
nothing,  positively  nothing,  worth  my  telling,  or  your  listen- 
inof  to. 

Besides,  at  what  a  disadvantage  you  would  take  me. 
Nearly  every  body  else  has  told  a  stoiy ;  and  mine,  after  all 
of  yours,  cannot,  as  poor  Desdemona  said,  be  other  than  a 
"most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion."  Absolve  me  from  my 
promise,  and  I  will  dance,  play,  sing,  do  any  thing  else  you 
wish.     Instead  of  dissipating  ennui,  I  shall  but  increase  it. 

You  shake  your  heads  and  hold  me  to  the  bond.  Well, 
yours  be  the  penalty.  Bear  witness,  each  and  all,  that  I  give 
you  warning  full  and  fair. 

If  you  will  have  a  narrative,  and,  more  than  all,  a  true 
one,  I  shall  even  give  you  a  personal  anecdote.  It  is  quite 
matter-of-fact ;  no  mystery,  no  horrors,  nothing  extraordinary, 
and  only  dashed  with  the  slightest  possible  quantity  of 
romance. 

Fifteen  years  ago,  I  was  just  fifteen  years  old.  It  seems 
but  as  yesterday.  My  father  resided  in  this  very  county  of 
Derby,  where  he  had  a  tolerable  estate.  Ue  was  an  honest, 
true-hearted,  willful-minded  country  gentleman,  burthened  or 
blessed  with  a  family  of  daughters,  whose  number  equalled 


THE     HEIRESS.  173 

that  of  the  Muses.  How  earnestly  and  vainly  he  longed  for 
a  son  !  By  the  time  I  was  born,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
bear  the  disappointment  with  all  proper  patience.  I  do  not 
think  that,  latterly,  he  lamented  the  want  of  a  male  heir 
more  than  ten  times  in  every  day. 

He  was  one  of  the  old  school.  That  is,  he  was  fond  of 
field  sports — fond  of  the  bottle — so  fond  of  his  family 
honour  that,  although  he  could  dispose  of  his  landed  estate 
as  he  wished,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  it  to  Sir 
Edward  Morton,  the  head  of  the  house — and  so  attached  to 
the  Constitution  that,  often  to  the  detriment  of  his  own,  it 
was  his  time-honoured  custom,  night  after  night,  to  stand  by 
it,  when,  truth  to  say,  his  libations  to  the  rosy  god  had  left 
him  unable  to  stand  by  any  thing  else. 

On  the  whole,  however,  my  father  was  what  is  called  "  a 
good  sort  of  a  man."  Your  three-bottle  men— your  mighty 
Nimrods — your  thorough  John  Bull  gentlemen,  who  imported 
their  own  wines,  brewed  their  own  October,  and  killed  tlieir 
own  mutton,  have  nearly  all  passed  away  ;  and,  if  the  truth 
be  told,  we  have  no  great  loss  in  them.  It  is  a  pity  that,  in 
losing  this  class,  we  seemed  also  to  have  lost  their  genuine, 
hearty  hospitality.  I  know  that  there  are  exceptions — so.  Sir 
Julian  need  not  think  that  I  mean  any  thing  personal  as 
respects  Tressilian  Court — but  the  open-hearted  hospitality  of 
our  English  gentry  seems  to  have  vanished,  and  to  be 
succeeded  by  cold  ceremony  and  vain  ostentation,  which  very 
inefficiently  supply  its  place. 

I  am  too  digressive.  Let  me  return  to  my  father.  He 
lived  happily  enough  among  his  friends,  and  the  only  care 
that  ever  flitted  by  him — always  excepting  his  grief  that  he 
was  sow-less,  like  a  Greenland  winter — was  caused  by  the 
thought  that  life  was  short,  and  that  he  could  scarcely  hope 
to  see  his  nine  daughters  married  before  he  died.     But,  my 


1*74  TRESSILIAN. 

dear,  kind,  managing  mother  was  an  adept  in  matrimonial 
tactics — she  must  have  been  a  match-maker  bv  intuition,  for 
she  lived  far  from  the  London  marriasfe-marts — and  she  con- 
trived  that,  year  after  year,  a  daughter  was  launched  into  the 
circulation  of  connubial  currency. 

Heaven  only  knows  how  this  was  accomplished,  for  no 
fortunes  were  paid  or  promised — it  was  known  that  my  father 
meant'the  estate  to  go  to  the  elder  branch  of  the  family — and 
it  certainly  was  not  the  beauty  of  my  sisters  that  got  them 
well-wedded,  for  I  may  say,  and  without  any  very  extra- 
ordinary vanity,  that  plain  as  /  am,  I  was  by  far  the  best- 
looking  of  the  family. 


[Though  her  Ladyship  was  not  what  one  would  call  "a 
beauty,"  she  undoubtedly  did  not  merit  the  insinuation  of 
plainness,  and  it  was  one  which  nobody  but  herself  would 
have  ventured.  As  she  made  it,  her  eyes  involuntarily  turned 
to  the  reflection  of  herself  in  the  mirror  opposite  the  ottoman 
on  which  she  sat.  Her  auditors  noted  the  glance,  and 
smiled.  The  same  glance  which  showed  herself  to  herself, 
also  allowed  her  to  perceive  the  eager  gaze  of  admiration 
which  the  Major  fixed  upon  her.  At  this  moment,  when  the 
fair  cheek  blushed,  and  the  dark  eye  brightened,  she  looked 
almost  lovely — and  she  knew  it !  So,  she  felt  that  the  ardour 
of  that  admiring  gaze  might  be  forgiven — for  when  did 
Woman  ever  feel  really  angry  at  homage  rendered  to  her 
charms  ?  To  us  who,  on  the  principle  of  the  spectators 
seeing  more  of  the  game  than  the  players,  had  the  advantage 
of  overlooking  the  moves,  and  noting  the  bye-play,  it 
appeared  pretty  certain  that  the  lady  would  presently  cry 
"check"  to  the  Major — and  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  his 
own  fault  i^  with  the  slightest  possible  delay,  after  that,  this 


THE      HEIRESS.  1*75 

gallant  gentleman  might  not  prevail  upon  her  to  consent  to 
be  "mated."  This  was  our  general  feeling,  not  audibly 
expressed  in  words,  but  silently  intercommunicated  by  signifi- 
cant glances  from  each  to  each.] 


Nay,  not  a  word.  I  see  what  you  would  say.  Spare  your 
compliments.  In  very  truth,  my  sisters  were  not  very  famous 
for  good  looks.  They  were  pretty  well  accomplished,  as 
accomplishments  went  at  that  time.  They  could  draw  a 
little — play  a  little — sing  a  little — and  dance  a  great  deal. 
They  were  excellent  house-wives — most  notable  managers. 
You  smile — let  me  tell  you  that  this  last  is  a  first  rate 
advantage  in  the  country.  A  woman  so  endowed,  although 
portionless  in  other  matters,  is  something  of  a  prize  in  a 
country  household.  If  she  does  not  brinff  a  fortune,  she 
sometimes  may  save  one — though  I  have  known  families  in 
whose  case  the  verdict  might  be  "  Ruined  by  Economy." 

It  is  not  of  any  consequence  how  it  happened,  but  it  is 
certain  that  my  sisters,  to  use  the  proper  and  conventional 
phrase,  went  ofi"  exceedingly  well.  Mine  has  been  a  more 
stirring  life.  I  have  moved  in  higher  circles ;  I  have  been 
stanzaed  for  my  beauty — I  have  been  quoted  as  a  wit  (mind, 
I  use  the  words  that  others  used,  for  I  hate  wit,  and  I  do  not 
possess  beauty) — I  have  been  as  happy  as  most  women  in  my 
station,  but  I  question  whether,  after  all,  my  enjoyments 
(society,  fashion,  flattery,  literature) — have  been  more  in 
number  or  in  value  than  theirs.  The  same  dull  round  of 
routine  employments  —  the  same  homely  and  household 
pursuits — the  same  unintellectual  society — the  same  sort  of 
stupid  husbands,  whose  highest  ambition  is  to  breed  stupen- 
dously fat  cattle  for  the  county  agricultural  exhibition,  make 
dull  speeches  at  a  vestry  meeting,  look  consequential  on  the 


1Y6  TRESSILIAN. 

Bench  at  Quarter  Sessions,  or  dine  at  an  inn  with  the  county 
Member — the  same  sort  of  bullet-headed  children,  with  white 
locks,  and  fat  paws,  and  chubby  cheeks — the  same  petty 
rivaliies — the  same  humdrum  society,  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end,  have  been  the  lot  of  my  contented  sisters,  and  on 
that  lot  they  have  vegetated  very  happily.  It  is  exceedingly 
fortunate  that  all  people  have  not  the  same  tastes.  Such  a 
life  as  they  have  led,  poor  things,  would  kill  me  in  a  week. 

Eight  of  my  sisters  were  taken  off  my  father's  hands — you 
perceive  that  I  can  use  the  true  market  phrase — before  I  was 
quite  fifteen.  I  was  the  ninth,  and  the  youngest  by  some 
years.  When  all  the  rest  had  been  disposed  of,  literally  to 
the  best  bidders,  I  was  yet  such  a  mere  child  in  years,  thought, 
and  appearance,  that  matrimony  was  a  goal  to  which,  for 
some  time  at  least,  my  steps  were  not  to  be  directed.  Per- 
haps, as  I  was  the  youngling  of  the  flock,  I  was  kept  on  hand 
a  little  longer,  in  the  hope  of  being  the  more  advantageously 
disposed  of.  Perhaps  my  youth  would  have  been  no  great 
impediment  to  my  "  settlement  in  life  " — how  convenient  are 
the  terms! — if  my  mother  had  not  died  suddenly,  greatly 
to  my  sorrow,  for  I  very  dearly  loved  her.  This  event  made 
a  great  change  at  home,  and  I  was  sent  to  3,  boarding-school 
near  Derby,  until  farther  orders. 

We  knew  very  little  of  Sir  Edward  Morton,  the  distant 
relative  to  whom  my  father  intended  that  the  estate  should 
revert,  to  carry  out  the  principle  of  primogeniture,  than  that 
he  was  very  old,  very  rich,  and  very  eccentric.  On  the 
formal  announcement  of  my  mother's  death,  he  sent  a  letter 
of  condolence,  courteous,  kind,  and  formal,  in  which  he 
requested  particular  information  respecting  tlie  domestic 
affairs  of  our  family,  and  intimated  a  desire  that,  connected 
as  we  were  in  blood,  we  should  also  be  connected  in  friendship. 

My  father  replied,  in  his  usual  frank  and  hearty  manner, 


THE     HEIRESS.  Ill 

that  it  should  not  be  his  fault  if  the  friendship  thus  solicited 
were  not  freely  formed  and  fostered.  From  this  there 
followed  such  an  interchange  of  compliments,  that,  some  six 
months  after  the  commencement  of  the  correspondence.  Sir 
Edward  Morton  invited  my  father  to  visit  him  at  his  seat  ia 
Yorkshire. 

The  visit  was  paid,  and  each  father  must  have  loudly 
sounded  the  praises  of  his  child,  for  they  agreed  that  the 
estates  should  be  united  by  the  bond  matrimonial.  I  was 
fluttered  and  flattered  at  receiving  an  intimation  that  I  was 
to  proceed  forthwith  to  Morton  Hall,  where  my  father  still 
remained.  I  had  a  vague  suspicion  that  something  in  the 
marriage-line  was  on  the  tapis,  for  my  father's  recent  letters 
had  been  brimful  with  praises  of  Mr.  Henry  Morton,  the  only 
child  of  his  kinsman.  These  praises  must  have  been  wholly 
on  hearsay,  for  the  young  gentleman  was  then  on  the 
Continent. 

I  was  received  at  Morton  Hall  affectionately,  as  if  I  were 
Sir  Edward's  daughter,  instead  of  his  guest.  Women  have 
a  sort  of  freemasonry  by  which  they  know  when  they  are 
favourites,  and  I  saw,  at  once,  that  I  was  on  the  high-road  to 
the  old  Baronet's  heart.  He  was  so  kind,  so  considerate,  so 
generous,  that  I  must  have  been  cold  and  ungrateful  indeed, 
if  I  did  not  seek  to  repay  him  by  all  the  attentions  in  my 
power. 

Soon  after  my  arrival,  I  was  summoned  to  a  cabinet  council 
in  the  library,  where,  after  a  preliminary  harangue  of  half-an- 
hour's  length,  my  father  informed  me  that  Sir  Edward  and 
himself  had  agreed  that  Henry  Morton  should  marry  me,  and 
that  it  was  expected  I  should  be  rejoiced  at  this  arrangement. 
Sir  Edward  drew  me  towards  him,  and  kindly  kissed  my 
forehead,  adding  a  few  words  to  the  effect  that  he  knew  my 
disposition  was  exactly  similar  to  that  of  his  dear  son,  and 

8* 


1*18  TRESSILIAN. 

that  this  greatly  relieved  his  mind,  by  giving  him  the 
assurance  that  the  union  would  be  a  happy  one.  The 
gentleman  quite  forgot  that  neither  of  the  contracted  parties 
had  yet  seen  the  other.  But  in  a  family  compact  of  this 
kind,  there  is  little  consideration  for  the  feelings  or  aflfections 
— it  a  simply  a  matter  of  convenience,  and  seldom  an  affair 
of  the  heart. 

I  usually  have  a  good  memory — yet  I  now  forget  what 
reply  I  gave  to  this  matrimonial  proposal.  Perhaps  I  gave 
none — perhaps  none  was  expected — perhaps  I  did  not  then 
quite  comprehend  what  he  told  me.  At  any  rate,  the  affair 
was  considered  as  fixed,  and  1  was  sent  back  to  school,  a 
betrothed  damsel,  loaded  with  presents. 

A  few  months  later,  I  was  suddenly  summoned  home.  My 
father  was  on  his  death-bed,  and  I  arrived  in  time  to  see  him 
die,  and  receive  his  blessing.  Although  he  was  rather  a 
negative  character  in  society,  as  a  man,  I  had  ever  found 
him  a  kind  and  affectionate  parent,  and  the  tears  which  I 
shed  for  him  were  neither  few  nor  unmerited. 

On  his  will  being  read,  it  appeared  that  he  had  annually  laid 
by  a  considerable  portion  of  his  income,  and  this  accumula- 
tion, divided  among  my  sisters,  was  some  consolation  to  them 
for  the  remaining  provisions  of  the  bequest,  Avhich  were  to 
the  effect  that,  by  mutual  agreement  between  Sir  Edward 
Morton  and  my  father,  it  had  been  determined  that  Henry 
Morton  should  become  the  husband  of  Isabella  Charlton — 
that  he  should  tender  his  hand  to  me  within  one  year  after 
his  father's  death — and,  that,  in  the  event  of  either  party 
neglecting,  or  declining  to  make,  or  accept  such  offer  matri- 
monial, the  united  estates  were  to  become  the  sole  property  of 
the  other.  If  the  gentleman  neglected  or  declined  to 
become  my  suitor,  he  was  to  be  cut  off  with  an  annuity  of 
£300  a  year.     If  the  negative  came  from  me,  I  was  to  have 


THE      HEIRESS.  179 

the  same  amount  for  my  yearly  income.  To  prevent  tte 
possibility  of  any  thing  like  a  compromise,  there  was  a  pro- 
viso by  which  one  party  was  prohibited  from  adding  any 
thing  to  the  income  of  the  other.  All  this  would  have  been 
of  little  use  in  a  mere  will,  for  it  was  clear  that  my  father 
could  not  legally  control  the  manner  in  which  Sir  Edward 
Morton  might  choose  to  dispose  of  his  own  property,  but 
there  had  been  a  bond  between  the  two  parties,  by  which, 
under  hea\7  penalties  of  forfeiture,  the  compact  was  firmly 
made.  Very  soon  after  this.  Sir  Edward  Morton  also  died, 
and  his  '  last  will  and  testament,'  was  found  to  correspond,  in 
these  essential  parts,  with  that  of  my  father.  Intent  on  the 
fulfilment  of  their  wishes,  they  had  taken  care  to  provide  for 
it  by  all  that  the  law  could  render  most  binding.  In  their 
eyes,  the  union  of  the  estates  was  all  important — for  the 
union  of  hearts  they  had  made  no  provision. 

Here,  then,  was  I,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  conditionally  an 
heiress,  and  conditionally  betrothed.  I  was  engaged  to  a 
man  whom  I  had  never  seen,  but  if  he  had  the  manly  option  of 
asking  me  to  be  his  wife,  I  had  the  feminine  power,  on  the 
other  hand,  of  saying  "  no." 

Sir  Henry  Morton  speedily  returned  to  England,  and  was  little 
pleased  to  find  on  what  conditions,  and  with  what  a  prospec- 
tive burthen,  his  parental  estates  were  transmitted  to  him.  For 
my  own  part,  I  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  learning,  as 
I  afterwards  did,  that  he  took  legal  advice  upon  his  father's 
■will.  I  am  so  little  of  a  lawyer,  that  I  may,  probably, 
make  a  confusion  of  terms,  but  I  believe  that,  some  short 
time  before  he  quitted  England  on  his  Continental  tour,  he 
had  joined  in  what  is  called  "  docking  the  entail,"  a  process 
by  which,  if  I  am  not  misinformed,  he  gave  his  father  the 
power  to  alienate  the  landed  property  as  he  pleased.  He 
was  in  no  very  pleasant  dilemma.     His  legal  advisers  told 


180  TRESSILIAN. 

him  that  it  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  dispute  the  validity 
of  his  father's  will,  nor  am  I  quite  sure  that  he  would  have 
done  it  if  he  could.  His  chagrin,  however,  was  by  no  means 
concealed. 

Did  he  dislike  me  ?  He  had  never  seen  me — scarcely 
knew,  until  now,  that  such  a  being  was  in  existence.  But  his 
feelings  were  romantic — his  mind  was  imaginative — his  sensi- 
bility acute,  and  it,  therefore,  is  not  surprising  that  he  had  a 
horror  of  being  wedded  "  per  order,"  as  the  tradesmen  have 
it.  He  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  dissatisfaction,  and, 
through  one  friend  or  another,  I  was  not  long  in  ignorance  of 
his  avowed  intention  of  not  soliciting  my  hand.  What  an 
affront ! — not  to  let  me  have  the  credit  and  pleasure  of 
refusing  him.  I  do  not  think  that,  after  all,  I  was  half  so 
much  displeased  as  I  ought  to  have  been  with  this  rumour  of 
the  young  baronet's  spirit.  I  am  confident  that  I  should  have 
heartily  despised  him,  had  he  made  up  his  mind,  as  some  of 
his  sex  would  have  done,  to  take  the  estates,  with  myself  as 
the  incumbrance.  From  the  moment  I  heard  that  he  vowed 
he  would  see  me  only  once,  to  tell  me  that  he  could  not 
become  my  suitor,  he  rose  rapidly  in  my  esteem. 

The  singular  provisions  of  the  two  wills  were  publicly 
discussed,  and,  as  it  was  rumored  that  she  might  come  into  a 
large  fortune,  the  little  brunette,  who  had  been  at  Madame 
Le  Plaisir's  "  establishment,"  for  twelve  months  past,  without 
attracting  any  attention,  became  the  "  cynosure  of  neighbour- 
ing eyes,"  all  at  once — that  is,  as  much  as  a  parlour  boarder 
well  could  be.  As  if  by  a  miracle,  it  was  discovered  that  I 
had  bright  eyes — that  my  figure  was  graceful — that  my 
manners  were  refined — in  a  word  that  I  was  a  sort  of  con- 
ditional heiress!  Such  attentions  as  I  was  paid,  might  have 
turned  a  wiser  and  an  older  head  than  mine.  But,  although 
very  young,   I   distrusted   this   novel   kindness — these   new 


THE      HEIRESS.  181 

friends — this  new  situation.  Young  as  I  was,  I  was  singu 
larly  suspicious  of  flattery :  therefore,  though  beaux  stared  a 
me  in  St.  Alkmund's  Church,  and  bowed  to  me  in  All  Saints', 
I  estimated  these  attentions  at  the  proper  value.  I  was  con- 
scious that,  until  then,  nobody  had  condescended  to  notice 
me,  and  I  might  rightly  attribute  the  change  to  my  improved 
prospects. 

Admirers  hover  round  an  heiress,  like  flies  round  a  honey- 
comb. A  dashing,  bold,  handsome  fortune-hunter  formed  the 
resolution  to  heighten  the  dislike  to  marry  me,  which,  it  was 
rumoured,  had  sprung  up  in  Sir  Henry  Morton's  mind,  from 
the  injunction  to  ofter  his  hand  to  me.  This  person  was  a 
Captain  Smith,  possessing  talents  and  address  sufficient  to 
render  the  success  of  his  scheme  far  from  impossible.  He 
did  not  contemplate  my  being  husbandless.  His  idea  was,  if 
he  deprived  me  of  the  spouse  who  was  duly  willed  and 
bequeathed  to  me,  to  supply  his  place — in  person. 

Captain  Smith  contrived  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 
young  baronet.  Being  a  pleasant  and  well-informed  com- 
panion, the  acquaintance  soon  warmed  into  intimacy,  and  the 
intimacy  duly  ripened  into  friendship.  Sir  Henry  had  but  a 
lonely  time  of  it  at  Morton  Hall,  and  there  was  nothing 
particularly  agreeable  in  marrj'ing  a  lady  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  or  in  relinquishing  the  fine  estate  to  which  he  had  so 
recently  succeeded.  The  gallant  Captain  soon  became  so 
necessary  to  him,  as  a  relief  from  his  own  sad  thoughts,  that 
he  was  quite  domesticated  at  the  Hall  in  a  week  or  two. 
The  baronet  made  somethina:  of  a  confidant  of  his  new 
friend,  who,  as  I  afterwards  was  told,  did  not  draw  my  cha- 
racter in  the  most  flattering  terms.  On  the  contrary,  he  had 
not  very  much  diSiculty  in  persuading  Sir  Henry,  that  he 
could  live  much  more  happily  on  iE300  a  year  without  me, 
than  on  a  yearly  income  of  £14,000,  burtheued  with  such  an 


182  TRESSILIAN. 

incumbrance  as  myself.  What  people  wish,  they  readily 
believe,  and  if  there  had  not  existed  a  strong  bias  against  me, 
Sir  Henry  could  not  have  been  so  persuaded.  Captain  Smith 
was  careful  never  to  say  anj'thing  directly  to  my  prejudice — 
but  he  was  a  very  insinuating  man !  1  was  condemned  by 
implication  and  by  inference.  He  could  "  hint  a  fault,  and 
hesitate  dislike,"  in  the  most  adroit  manner.  He  dealt  out 
his  speechless  obloquy,  with  perseverance  and  tact — care- 
fully avoiding  making  a  dead  set  at  me,  as  that  might 
have  induced  a  generous  mind  to  champion  the  absent.  But 
he  contrived  to  let  it  be  understood  that  I  was  ordinary, 
awkward,  and  imperfectly  educated. 

Marian  Smith,  only  sister  of  the  adventurer,  officiated  as 
half-pupil,  half-governess,  in  Madame  Le  Plaisir's  "Establish- 
ment for  Young  Ladies."  She  was  a  clever,  shrewd,  showy 
girl — exactly  such  an  one  as  might  easily  become  a  knowing 
intrigante  in  love  or  politics.  She  was  naturally  good- 
natured,  and,  some  time  before  I  had  become  an  orphan,  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  me,  and  had  treated  me  with  an  affectionate 
and  disinterested  kindness,  for  which  I  w^as  very  grateful,  the 
more  so,  I  suppose,  because  such  attentions  were  rare  at  the 
time  and  place.  When,  from  the  mere  nobody  I  had  been, 
fortune  elevated  me  into  a  sort  of  somebodv,  with  hi^h  ex- 
pectations,  every  one  seemed  anxious  to  distinguish  me,  but  I 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  their  blandishments,  somewhat  haughtily, 
I  fear,  and  ray  only  school-friend  was  Marian  Smith,  who  had 
been  kind  to  me  when  no  interested  motive  could  have  influ- 
enced her.  Accordingly  we  were  Damon  and  Pythias  in 
petticoats. 

In  this,  she  had  a  great  advantage  over  me : — she  was 
nearly  ten  years  my  senior;  and,  from  this,  as  well  as  her 
position  in  the  school,  I  had  been  accustomed  to  look  up  to 
her  with  a  strong  degree  of  reliance.    So,  when  Captain  Smith 


THE      HEIRESS.  183 

began  to  manoeuvre  for  my  hand  and  the  rich  acres,  his  sister 
was  one  of  the  best  instruments  he  could  employ. 

There  could  not  have  been  a  better  confederate.  She  had 
good  cards  in  her  hand,  and  she  played  them  well.  She  had 
all  the  arts  of  a  practiced  tactician,  and  the  chief  of  them 
was  the  concealment  that  she  had  any.  She  glided  into  my 
confidence — unsuspiciously  extolling  the  manifold  virtues  of 
her  brother — blaming  him  for  an  utter  want  of  selfishness 
which  had  often  interfered  with  his  worldly  interests — gently 
condemnina:  his  romantic  enthusiasm — commentino-  in  most 
pitying  terms  on  the  horrid  necessity  of  my  being  compelled 
to  marry  a  man  whom  I  had  not  yet  seen — insinuating  that 
he  had  spoken  slightly  of  me,  and,  after  that,  could  seek  my 
hand  for  nothing  but  the  fortune  it  w^ould  carry  with  it.  All 
this  was  conveyed  in  such  a  tone  of  sympathy,  sorrow,  and 
sincerity,  apparently  arising  out  of  a  deep  wish  for  my  happi- 
ness, that  even  watchful  suspicion  would  have  been  disarmed 
of  its  apprehensions.  It  easily  imposed  upon  me,  knowing 
no  guile,  nor  thinking  that  one  who  called  herself  my  friend 
could  practise  it. 

No  wonder  that  all  this  had  much  of  its  intended  effect.  I 
already  was  slightly  predisposed  against  Sir  Henry,  on  ac- 
count of  the  peculiar  position  in  which  we  were  relatively 
placed ;  and  what  I  heard  of  his  avowed  dislike  to  our  union, 
together  with  hints  as  to  engagements  and  excesses  on  the 
Continent,  was  not  very  unwelcome  to  me,  as  it  seemed,  in 
some  manner,  to  justify  the  prejudice  which  tioated  in  my 
mind.  The  soil  was  well  prepared  for  the  seed;  and  dear 
Marian  Smith  was  a  cunning  cultivator. 

Iler  brother  sometimes  came  to  pay  a  flying  visit  to  her ; 
and  it  was  usually  contrived  that  I  should  be  present  during 
part  of  the  interview.  On  these  occasions,  whenever  Sir 
Elenry  Morton  was  alluded  to,  the  subject  was  dismissed  with. 


184  TRESSILIAN. 

a  significant  slinig  and  sigh,  wliich,  in  their  very  silence, 
told  a  great  deal. 

All  this  had  made  me  half  determine  to  have  the  gratifica- 
tion of  refusing  the  hand  of  Sir  Henry,  if  it  should  be  prof- 
fered. But  the  Smiths  had  no  wish  that  such  should  be  the 
issue  of  the  adventure.  They  believed  that  it  would  not  re- 
quire any  very  difficult  management  to  throw  the  rejection 
u])on  him.  This  done,  the  Captain  was  to  make  an  eftbrt  to 
obtain  my  hand  for  himself,  and  what  he  desired  more  than 
that,  my  broad  lands  also.  The  man  had  many  things  in  his 
favour  besides  his  appearance  and  manners — but  his  chief  in- 
strument would  have  been  the  influence  upon  my  mind  quietly 
exercised  by  his  sister.  It  was  unseen  and  unsuspected — 
strong  though  secret.  It  is  probable  that  success  might  have 
fully  crowned  their  scheming,  but  for  a  slight  accident,  on 
which  they  liad  not  calculated. 

You  may  recollect  my  mentioning  its  being  provided  by 
the  double  wills,  that  Sir  Henry  Morton  must  marry  me 
•within  twelve  months  after  his  father's  death.  That  period 
had  now  so  very  nearly  elapsed,  that  my  guardians,  who  had 
110  doubt  that  the  marriage  would  take  place  in  due  course, 
sent  for  me,  thinking  that  Sir  Henry  might  not  wish  to  woo 
and  win  his  bride  under  the  surveillance  of  the  bread-and- 
butter  misses  of  a  boardinfr-school.  The  announcement  camo 
on  me  so  very  suddenly,  and  my  removal  was  efi'ected  so  very 
promptly,  that,  my  dear  Marian  Smith  being  accidentally  ab- 
sent, I  had  no  opportunity  of  taking  counsel  with  her. 

My  uncle,  who  was  one  of  my  guardians,  did  me  the  hon- 
our of  coming  for  me,  and  taking  me  with  him  to  his  house. 
He  was  a  plain-spoken  gentleman,  full  of  the  idea  that  he  was 
very  facetious,  and  that  any  boarding-school  young  lady  must 
enjoy  unequivocal  satisfaction  in  the  approach  of  marriage. 
He  therefore  managed  to  make  my  journey  very  uncomforta- 


THE     HEIRESS.  185 

ble  by  a  series  of  jokes  upon  my  approacliing  "  change  of 
condition,"  Smiles  and  frowns — protestations  and  silence — • 
were  alike  in  vain.  My  very  tears  failed  to  disarm  Lim.  He 
put  every  thing  down  to  "a  little  modesty,  my  dear,  very 
natural  to  your  situation,  and  becomes  you  exceedingly."  I 
never  was  so  tormented  before  nor  since. 

When  our  journey  was  ended,  I  found,  most  happily  and 
fortunately  for  me,  that  my  aunt  was  of  a  very  different  cha- 
racter. She  was  shrewd,  sensible,  and  sympathizing.  She 
had  mixed  with  the  world,  but  this  had  quickened  all  her 
womanly  sensibilities.  Without  my  perceiving  that  I  was 
subjected  to  the  process,  she  drew  from  me  some  idea  of  my 
feelings,  and  neither  frowned  nor  smiled,  scolded  nor  ridiculed 
me,  when  I  told  her  that  I  had  no  inclination  to  marry  Sir 
Henry  Morton,  if  he  were  to  ask  me,  and  that  I  believed  I 
should  be  much  happier  if  I  never  married  at  all. 

My  aunt,  who  looked  at  events  with  the  resolve  to  trace 
them  back  to  their  causes,  had  the  tact  to  ascertain  how  my 
prejudices  against  Sir  Henry  had  been  developed  and  encou- 
raged. "  It  is  well,"  said  she,  with  a  smile,  "  that  this  danger- 
ous Marian  Smith  is  not  with  you  just  now.  I  know,  from 
authority  indisputable,  that  her  clever  brother  has  been  acting 
much  the  same  part  by  Sir  Henry  Morton.  It  is  not  very 
difficult  to  surmise  the  motives  of  this  double  game.  Per- 
haps, too,  my  dear,  there  may  be  a  little  pique  in  your  mind 
at  Sir  Henry's  having  let  so  many  months  pass  by  without 

making   an   effort  to  see  you  ?" 1  protested,  of  course, 

against  such  inferences,  and  defended  Marian  Smith,  with 
zeal,  if  not  with  eloquence.  But  I  saw  that  my  aunt  was 
incredulous. 

It  now  wanted  only  six  weeks  of  the  expiration  of  our  year, 
and — though  I  ivas  annoyed  at  the  indifference  with  which 
he  treated  me,  just  as  if  he  was  ignorant  of  the  existence  of 


TRESSILIAN. 

such  a  being — I  began  to  cherish  hopes  that  Sir  Henry  would 
not  come  to  ask  my  hand.  I  ventured  to  hint  at  such  to  my 
aunt,  and  her  reply  set  my  spirits  in  a  flutter ;  "  My  dear 
child,  you  will  see  Sir  Henry  in  due  time.  He  certainly  does 
come.  He  will  be  at  your  cousin's  next  week,  and  we  shall 
see  him  in  due  course,  so  make  up  your  mind  to  be  '  wooed, 
and  married,  and  a' '  in  due  season." 

One  of  those  irrepressible  impulses — caprices,  if  you  will — 
■which  sometimes  influence  us,  now  came  into  my  mind. 
Hitherto,  I  had  been  persuaded,  and  had  persuaded  myself, 
that  I  cared  as  little  for  Sir  Henry,  as  he  for  me.  Now,  I 
felt  as  if  I  would  give  all  the  world  to  conquer  his  indifie- 
rence.  My  aunt  saw,  by  the  changeful  expression  of  my 
countenance,  that  something  like  a  heart-quake  was  heaving 
below,  and  she  frankly  told  me  that  though  she  did  not  solicit 
my  confidence,  she  hoped  and  believed  that,  if  I  did  confide 
in  her,  some  good  might  be  the  result.  "  I  have  no  daughter," 
said  she,  "  but  I  think  that  if  I  had,  I  could  not  feel  more 
interested  about  her,  than  I  am  about  you  at  this  moment." 
I  threw  my  arms  around  her  neck,  and  whispered,  "  I  have 
never  seen  Sir  Henry.  Let  me  judge  of  him,  myself  unknown. 
I  have  long  promised  to  s])end  a  month  with  my  cousin — let 
me  go  at  once,  under  another  name,  so  that  when  Sir  Henry 
arrives  there,  he  may  find  me  one  of  the  family,  and  thus 
make  my  acquaintance,  without  his  knowing  or  suspecting 
who  T  am." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  my  aunt,  caressingly,  "you  would 
play  the  part  of  Miss  Hardcastle,  in  the  comedy  of  '  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer.'  The  idea  is  romantic,  the  execution  dif- 
ficult. If  you  fail,  and  there  is  every  chance  that  you  may, 
you  are  lost.  Yet  I  would  like  to  let  you  have  your  own  way, 
for  you  have  no  ordinary  motive.  Where  much  is  to  be 
gained,  something  may  be  risked.     Your  cousin's  living  in  a 


THE      HEIRESS.  18Y 

retired  manner,  and  in  a  remote  part  of  the  country,  where 
she  sees  few  visitors,  and  where  you  have  never  yet  been, 
prevents  the  likelihood  of  your  incognito  being  discovered  a 
moment  before  your  own  desire  that  it  should  be.  I  think  I 
may  venture  to  let  it  be  even  as  you  please.  I  must  only 
hope  that  you  will  play  your  part  with  as  much  caution  as 
address." 

This  great  point  was  gained.  The  next  day,  my  aunt  went 
with  me  to  my  cousin's,  who  was  also  entrusted  with  the 
secret,  and  so  delighted  to  enter  into  my  little  plot,  that  she 
confidently  undertook  to  arrange  so  that,  except  through  some 
imprudence  of  my  own,  there  should  be  no  chance  of  untimely 
discovery.  This  was  the  easier,  as  Sir  Henry,  who  had  known 
her  from  childhood,  had  stipulated  that,  being  in  indifferent 
health  and  spirits,  his  visit  was  to  be  so  strictly  private,  that 
no  guests  or  visitors  were  to  see  or  m^et  him. 

He  visited  Oatlands,  therefore,  without  the  remotest  idea 
of  beholding  me  there.  That  I  was  in  the  neighborhood,  he 
knew.  His  friend.  Captain  Smith,  with  more  delicacy  than  I 
had  given  him  credit  for,  did  not  accompany  him — indeed, 
he  was  not  invited.  His  coming  would  have  spoiled  every- 
thinof. 

I  felt  ashamed,  deeply  ashamed  of  my  own  credulity, 
and  very  suspicious  of  Marian  Smith's  motives,  when  I  saw 
the  Baronet.  He  was  then  about  three-and-twenty,  tall  and 
slight  in  figure,  with  the  air  of  a  man  of  fashion,  and  that  innate 
gentleness  of  manner,  which  more  than  anything  else  is  pecu- 
liar to  gentle  blood.  "When  I  looked  at  his  handsome  face, 
met  the  gaze  of  his  expressive  eyes,  glanced  at  his  well-shaped 
forehead,  with  its  whiteness  well  relieved  by  his  dark-brown 
hair,  and  heard  his  low  and  musical  voice,  I  confess  that,  like 
Mr.  Acres's  courage,  my  prejudice  against  him  began  to  ooze 
out  at  my  finger's  ends. 


188  TRESSILIAN. 

He  was  just  such  a  man  as  the  quick  fancy  of  "  sweet  sev- 
enteen "  might  reverence  as  a  hero,  or  idolize  as  a  lover.  How 
shamefully  had  he  been  slandered !  His  intellectual  attain- 
ments were  at  least  equal  to  those  of  any  man  whom  I  had 
vet  met.  His  knowledije  of  books  had  been  corrected  and 
aided  bv  his  knowledoje  of  life.  Travel  had  not  been  thrown 
away  upon  him  ;  he  had  not  only  seen,  but  observed  and  re- 
membered. He  appeared  at  home  on  every  subject,  and  yet, 
even  when  he  was  led  to  exhibit  his  knowledge,  he  did  not 
parade  it.  He  was  entirely  free  from  foppery,  yet  always 
dressed  with  taste.  His  personal  attractions,  considerable  as 
they  were,  should  be  taken  as  the  smallest  of  his  merits.  His 
subdued  manner,  the  thoughtfulness  that  rested  upon  his 
brow  and  in  the  depth  of  his  dark  eyes,  the  sweetness  of  his 
voice,  the  earnest  eloquence  of  his  words,  the  purity  of  his 
taste,  all  made  him  an  acquaintance  much  too  interesting. 
With  me  it  may  not  have  been  love  at  first  sight,  but  it  was 
something  very  like  it. 

He  considered  me,  as  he  was  told,  a  mere  nobody ;  an  or- 
phan girl  visiting  at  his  cousin's,  because  she  had  no  home 
of  her  own.  He  very  soon  laid  aside  the  reserve  with  which 
he  met  a  stranger,  and  we  became  good  friends  without  loss 
of  time.  His  melancholy  sometimes  brightened  into  smiles, 
as  he  listened  to  the  lively  sallies  which  fell  from  my  lips ; 
lor  I  know  not  how,  while  my  actual  spirits  were  at  zero,  my 
seeming  spirits  were  as  high  as  fever-heat.  We  walked  to- 
gether, we  talked  together,  we  read  together,  until,  at  last, 
the  flush  on  his  cheek,  and  the  flashing  of  his  eye,  and  the 
deepening  tenderness  of  his  voice,  when  in  ray  company, 
made  me  suspect  that  my  task  was  over.  I  had  long  since 
mastered  my  own  foolish  prejudices;  I  now  trusted  that  I 
gamed  a  friend,  even  if  I  had  not  won  a  lover. 

At  last  came  the  time  to  part.    I  must  return  to  my  uncle's 


THE      HEIRESS.  189 

house,  for  the  year  named  in  my  father's  will  would  terminate 
in  a  few  days.  As  time  had  passed  on,  Sir  Henry  had  sunk 
deeper  and  deeper  into  melancholy,  or  rather  into  gloom,  and 
I  could  perceive  that,  of  late,  my  society  had  but  tended  to 
augment  it. 

I  had  been  introduced  to  him  as  a  portionless  and  almost 
friendless  orphan.  Another  day,  and  he  would  see  me  as 
myself.  But  how  would  the  discovery  affect  him  ?  Would 
he  think  lightly  of  the  deception?  or  was  it  not  more  proba- 
ble that  his  delicacy  would  revolt  from  her  who  had  sought 
to  make  his  heart  the  object  of  an  experiment !  With  such 
conflicting  thoughts,  I  was  almost  as  much  disturbed  as  him- 
self. 

The  crisis  arrived.  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room,  when  Sir  Henry  entered.  He  took  his  seat  by  my  side, 
and,  for  a  time,  both  were  silent.  But  words  soon  came 
quick  and  thronging ;  for,  when  the  heart  is  full,  it  will  speak. 
He  said — 

"  You  leave  us,  Isabella.  Will  you  leave  regrets  behind 
you  ?  will  you  think  of  those  whom  you  leave  ?  Before  you 
go,  let  me  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you.  Nay,  do  not  shrink. 
Your  colour  changes,  and  you  tremble.  Pity  me,  if  you  will 
not  pardon." 

He  took  my  hand,  and — I  could  not  withdraw  it.  I  felt 
that  he  was  looking  into  my  eyes — I  knew  that  they  were 
wet  with  tears ;  and  then — there  is  no  occasion  for  telling  all 
the  details.  I  knew — and  the  sensation  was  exquisite — that 
I  did  not  love  without  return.  Trembling  and  blushing,  I 
felt  it  right  to  repress  the  very  warmth  which  was  so  delight- 
ful. I  arose  to  adjust  the  window-blind,  and  took  my  seat 
not  quite  so  close  to  him  as  before.  It  was  now  mjtturn  to 
speak,  and  I  had  still  to  manceuvre  a  little,  though  I  grieved 
at  the  necessity  of  continuing  the  deception. 


190  TRESSILIAN. 

"  Let  us  try  to  forget  this  weakness,"  said  I.  "  To  you  it  can 
matter  little  what,  in  after  life,  may  become  of  me.  You  will 
yet  think  of  me,  perhaps,  as  one  who  has  contributed  to 
amuse  your  idle  hours — to  divert  your  thoughts  from  ennui 
or  gloom.  You  will  forget  the  friendless  orphan,  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  few  brief  weeks,  whose  youth  may  have  been 
her  greatest  charm — and  it  is  only  right  that  you  should  for- 
get her.  Recollect,  Sir  Henry,  how  soon  you  must  pay  to 
another  the  devotion  which  you  now  have  proftered  me. 
Leave  this  place,  and  with  it  leave  all  thought  of  me — except 
a  kindly  memory,  sometimes — and  go  hence  to  become,  even 
as  your  father  willed  it,  the  husband  of  one  who,  far  better 
than  myself,  has  a  claim  to  the  right." 

"By  Heaven!"  he  exclaimed,  "this  will  drive  me  mad. 
What  right  had  my  father  to  dispose  of  my  hand  without  my 
own  free  choice  ?  how  could  he  know  what  would  be  my 
ideal  of  a  wife  ?  how  could  he  pretend  to  throw  a  check  upon 
my  warm  and  gushing  feelings  ?  Did  he  think  that  I  was  to 
take  to  a  wife  whom  I  had  never  seen,  as  I  would  to  a  pic- 
ture, a  hunter,  a  house,  or  an  estate  ?  No,  Isabella ;  let  the 
lady  of  his  choice  take  the  broad  lands  which  my  fathers  won 
at  the  point  of  the  sword  in  the  olden  days — let  her  become 
possessor  of  the  stately  ancestral  trees  which  they  planted  a 
thousand  years  ago — let  her  take  the  old  Hall  in  which  so 
many  generations  of  them  were  born,  and  have  lived,  and 
died — let  the  heir  of  an  ancient  line  live  without  wealth,  so 
that  he  may  cherish  the  pure  and  first  affection  which  has 
sprung  into  his  heart,  and  ripened  there.  I  cannot  marry  a 
woman  whom  I  do  not  love — whom  I  have  not  yet  even  seen. 
The  world  is  wide  enough  for  honourable  exertion.  Enough 
will  remain  for  simple  maintenance,  even  if  I  decline  to  fulfill 
the  unhallowed  compact  which  our  fathers  made.  I  have 
hands,  and  I  can  toil — I  have  brains,  and  I  can  exercise  them. 


THE     HEIRESS.  191 

I  have  health,  and  hope,  and  energy,  and  education ;  and 
these  win  fortune  and  make  fame.  Be  mine.  Share  my  pit- 
tance now — sustain  me,  by  your  smiles,  your  affection,  while 
I  make  the  effort  to  augment  it ;  and,  my  life  on  the  cast,  we 
shall  yet  live  with  hopes  biightly  fulfilled.  Whatever  your 
decision,  mine  is  made ;  nothing  shall  tempt  me  to  an  union 
to  which  I  have  always  been  opposed,  but  unalterably  so  since 
I  have  loved  you." 

He  spoke  with  so  much  eager  vehemence  that  I  could  see 
his  mind  to  be  firmly  resolved.  I  inquired  whether  his  objec- 
tion extended  to  the  union  as  a  family  compact,  in  which  the 
parties  chiefly  concerned  were  not  consulted,  or  whether  he 
had  any  particular  reason  for  disliking  the  lady. 

"  My  objection,"  said  he,  "  is  upon  both  grounds.  My  faith 
is  plighted  without  my  knowledge — without  my  consent — 
without  my  having  the  power,  which  my  groom  claims  as  his 
right,  of  pleasing  my  own  fancy  in  a  partner  for  life.  This, 
of  itself,  would  create  the  strongest  spirit  of  opposition.  But 
Miss  Charlton " 

"  What  of  her  ?"  said  I,  with  an  attempt  to  appear  indif- 
ferent. 

"  What  of  her  ? — That  she  is  as  unlike  you  as  possible.  If 
she  were  not  vain  and  pedantic — at  once  a  coquette  and  a 
blue-stocking — I  could  easily  pardon  her  want  of  personal 
attractions.  I  think,  too,  that  if  she  possessed  ordinary  deli- 
cacy, she  ought  to  have  been  even  more  angry  at  the  attemj)t 
to  marry  her  to  one  whom  she  had  never  seen  than  I  am. 
But  you  change  color — perhaps  you  are  acquainted  with 
her?" 

"  I  do  know  her,"  said  I,  with  some,  bitterness  ;  for  though 
I  had  expected  some  disparagement,  I  was  shocked  at  finding 
my  character  drawn  in  such  colors.  "  I  know  her  as  well  as 
I  know  myself." 


192  TRESSILIAN. 

"  I  am  sorry,  then,"  said  he,  "  that  in  my  anger,  I  have  said 
any  thing  concerning  her,  that  could  wound  you,  her  friend." 

My  reply  was  that  it  made  no  matter, — he  had  drawn  her 
portrait,  and  allowed  the  shadow  to  predominate.  "  It  is  not 
every  artist,"  I  added,  "  who,  like  Lawrence,  can  use  the 
couleur  de  rose.  It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  however,  that 
the  young  lady  in  question  shoulc^  have  heard  much  the  same 
account  of  you  as  that  which  you  have  given  of  her." 

"  Of  me  V  said  he  with  a  look  and  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  of  you.  I  cannot  pretend  to  repeat  half  the  pretty 
compliments  respecting  you,  which  have  been  carefully  com- 
municated to  her,  nor  am  I  quite  sure,  calm  as  you  try  to 
look,  that  you  would  patiently  bear  their  repetition.  The  least 
offensive  were  to  the  effect,  that  you  are  a  roue  in  morals,  a 
pretender  in  fashion,  a  clown  in  manners,  and  a  gambler  to 
desperation." 

*'  Good  Heavens !"  he  cried,  "  what  dreadful  imputations, 
and  how  unfounded.  Surely  you  do  not  believe  them  ?  Gam- 
ing I  abhor.  The  character  of  a  roue,  I  shall  take  up,  when  I 
lay  aside  that  of  a  gentleman.  For  my  manners  and  attain- 
ments, they  are — what  you  see  and  know." 

Ilere  he  drew  himself  up  with  some  stateliness,  and  awaited 
my  reply.     I  kept  silence,  and  he  continued 

"  My  information  respecting  the  lady  is  more  true,  I  am 
afraid.     My  informant " 

"  Was  Captain  Smith,  whose  sister  drew  your  character  for 
Miss  Charlton,  so  it  is  likely  that  the  misrepresentation  has 
been  mutual,  and  for  a  special  purpose." 

"  If  I  thought  so  — " 

"  You  would  throw  yourself  at  Miss  Charlton's  feet, — vow 
to  be  her  preux  chevalier  for  life — make  sonnets  to  her  eye- 
brows— look  tenderly  into  her  eyes — hasten  to  become  a  con- 
tented Benedict — and,  with  all  imaginable  rapidity,  apply  the 


THE      HEIRESS.  193 

energies  of  your  mind  to  forget  the  world  of  protestations  yoix 
made  me  just  now." 

"  No  !"  said  he,  smiling,  "  that  would  be  indeed,  to  prove 
myself  what  I  have  been  described  as.  My  mind  is  made  up, 
and  ray  only  dread  is,  that  I  may  unconsciously  give  pain  to 
her,  whose  feelings  should  be  spared  as  much  as  possible.  I 
go  to  see  Miss  Charlton  to-morrow — I  shall  resign  all  preten- 
sions to  her  hand,  with  as  much  delicacy  as  I  can, — and  then, 
if  you  link  your  fate  with  that  of  a  man  of  broken  fortune, 
but  unbroken  hope,  we  shall  think  of  wealth  as  a  thing  not 
good  enough  to  have  youth  and  love  sacrificed  for.  My  Isa- 
bella, you  cannot  say  nay  —  you  must  not,  if  you  could." 

I  was  so  much  affected  by  these  proofs  of  his  kind  and 
true  regard,  that  I  scarcely  durst  trust  myself  to  answer  him. 
"  It  will  be  better  for  all  parties,"  said  I,  "that  I  decline  my 
reply  at  present.  I  l^elieve  that  you  are  in  earnest,  and  I  am 
gratified  at  finding  myself  the  object  of  such  regard.  Con- 
sidering what  my  situation  is,  and  what  yours  must  be,  if  you 
do  not  become  the  husband  of  Miss  Charlton,  no  one  can 
doubt  the  disinterested  nature  of  your  proposals.  But  you 
must  grant  me  one  favour.  See  Miss  Charlton,  as  you  ori- 
ginally intended,  and  satisfy  yourself,  whether  you  have  re- 
ceived an  accurate  description  of  her  person  and  her  mind. 
If  you  then  determine  to  reject  her  hand,  or  rather,  if  you 
decline  to  offer  yours  for  hor  acceptance  or  refusal — for, 
after  all,  she  may  be  as  r'.'luctant  as  yourself — I  will " 

"  Be  mine  ?  Is  it  not  so  ?" — I  checked  his  raptures,  for  I 
heard  the  carriage  wheels. 

"  And  when,  my  dear  Isabella,  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  You 
have  not  told  me  where  you  are  sroinof.  Let  me  know  where 
I  can  see  you,  after  my  interview  with  Miss  Charlton." — I 
told  him  that  I  could  not  precisely  tell  him  then,  but  certainly 
he  should  see  me,  since  he  was  so  anxious,  as  soon  as  possi- 

9 


194  TRESSILIAN. 

ble  after  Lis  important  conference  of  the  morrow.  With  this 
promise,  he  was  compelled  to  be  content.  He  handed  me 
into  the  carriage,  and  I  departed  for  my  own  house,  in  which 
my  guardians  had  arranged  that  Sir  Henry  Morton  should 
■wait  upon  me. 

I  reached  home  late,  for  I  had  some  distance  to  travel,  and 
there  found  my  Aunt  awaiting  my  arrival.  Pleading  fatigue, 
and  not  without  cause,  I  hastily  half-gratified  her  curiosity  by 
saying,  that  all  was  going  on  favourably,  and  hastened  to  my 
chamber — for  thought  rather  than  repose. 

The  result  of  my  experiment  was  to  be  developed  on  the 
next  day.  I  looked  forward  with  mingled  anxiety  and  hope — 
though  the  latter  was  in  the  ascendant.  Sometimes,  I  own  a 
chilling  doubt  would  creep  through  my  mind,  that  Sir  Hen- 
ry's rather  fastidious  feelings  might  experience  disgust  at  the 
finesse  I  had  been  using.  His  own  frank  and  open  spirit,  as 
I  well  know,  had  little  toleration  for  anything  like  double- 
dealing.  But  when  hearts  were  trumps,  what  woman  would 
not  play  a  bold  game  \ 

I  determined  that  the  Library  should  be  my  Hall  of  Au" 
dience,  and,  to  maintain  my  character  of  a  has  bleu,  maps, 
books,  drawings,  mathematical  instruments,  were  scattered 
about  in  most  admired  confusion.  The  floor  was  strewed  with 
"learned  lumber"  from  the  shelves — a  pair  of  globes  were  on 
the  table  immediately  before  my  seat — a  compound  micro- 
scope was  also  visible — a  variety  of  plants  and  flowers  was 
present,  to  indicate  my  botanical  pursuits — in  short,  the  whole 
apartment  was  in  a  state  of  learned  litter,  well-calculated  to 
strengthen  the  impression  that  its  occupant  was,  what  all  well- 
informed  men  heartily  hate — a  vain,  pedantic  female. 

The  morning  advanced — did  evei'  hours  move  more  slowly  ? 
At  length,  Sir  Henry  was  announced.  I  knew  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  as  he  paced  down  the  passage.   As  the  song  says, 


THE     HEIRESS.  195 

there  was  "  music  in  it."  He  approached,  and  I  arose  to  re- 
ceive him.  As  he  entered,  he  paused  at  the  door,  and  started 
as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  ray  figure.  I  iiad  forgotten  to 
cover  it,  and  now  I  drew  my  shawl  around  me.  As  for  my 
features,  he  could  not  well  distinguish  them,  for  I  had  taken 
care  to  sit  with  my  back  to  the  window,  the  curtains  of  which 
were  half-closed,  and,  for  greater  safety,  had  covered  my 
flowing  tresses  Avith  a  mighty  cap,  adorned  with  a  world  of 
lace,  and  a  little  garden  of  artificial  flowers,  which  had 
formed  the  once  feshionable  head-gear  of  my  Aunt. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  cold,  more  formal,  than  the 
commencement  of  our  tete-a-tete.  There  we  sat — a  pair  of 
frozen  proprieties.  A  few-  cold  sentences  from  him — a  few  in- 
audible monos3'llabic  replies  from  me.  At  last  he  took  cour- 
age, and  respectfully  told  me  that,  after  due  consideration,  he 
had  presumed  to  decline  the  gratification  and  honor  of  pre- 
senting himself  a  suitor  for  my  hand.  He  apologised  for 
what  he  called  his  insensibility  to  my  merits,  but  frankly  said 
that  his  heart  was  not  his  own  to  offer.  It  would  pain  him, 
of  course,  to  relinquish  his  paternal  estates,  but  Le  was  con- 
soled by  the  thought  that  they  would  only  pass  to  his  next  of 
kin,  and  sincerely  wished  that  I  might  long  live  to  enjoy  them. 
For  himself,  he  added,  though  he  thus  abandoned  wealth, 
he  had  enough  left  for  competence — the  world  was  before 
him,  where  fortune  and  reputation  were  to  be  won  by  indus- 
try, if  not  by  talent — and,  at  all  events,  he  was  happy  in 
the  belief  that  he  could  persuade  the  object  of  his  affections 
to  share  his  lot,  whether  gloomy  or  bright,  and  that,  thus  sus- 
tained, he  was  sure  of  happiness. 

There  was  so  much  manlv  sfentleness  in  this  declaration — ■ 
such  an  anxiety  to  avoid  wounding  my  feelings,  while  doing 
justice  to  his  own — that  the  conffict  of  my  thoughts  overpow- 
ered me.   The  excitement  was  too  much.   I  grew  faint,  and  sank 


196  TRESSILIAN. 

back  in  my  chair.  Sir  Henry  hastily  arose,  and  threw  open 
the  window,  to  give  me  fresh  air.  His  touch  revived  me. 
He  had  admitted  light  as  well  as  air,  and  the  cap  which  I 
wore  had  fallen  oft".  Could  he  trust  his  sight?  Was  he 
awake  or  dreaming?  Conviction  flashed  across  his  mind  as 
my  Aunt  entered  the  room.  Her  smile  told  him  all.  He 
earnestly  pleaded  for  my  hand,  and,  you  may  be  sure,  he  did 
not  plead  in  vain. 

What  followed  may  readily  be  imagined — explanations, 
and  confessions,  and  wonderings.  My  Uncle  had  already 
provided  a  special  license.  My  Aunt  had  taken  care  that  a 
bridal  wai'drobe  should  not  be  wanting.  There  was  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  a  clergyman,  and  so,  as  all  comedies  end  with 
a  wedding,  we  were  married  that  evening. 

Of  the  Smiths,  I  never  heard  again.  I  never  inquired  after 
them.  As  a  wife,  I  had  as  much  happiness  as  usually  falls  to 
the  lot  of  mortals.  I  never  had  reason  to  repent  of  the  suc- 
cess of  my  experiment.  Even  yet,  though  five  years  have 
elapsed  since  my  husband's  death,  I  cherish  the  memory  of 
his  affection. 

Here  ends  my  story.  If  it  has  been  dlill — do  me  the  jus- 
tice of  remembering  that  I  warned  you,  at  its  commencement, 
that  it  could  not  well  be  otherwise. 


T  II  E 


empress's    watch.  197 


"  And  now,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  have  performed  my  part  of 
this  tale-telling  compact,  and  may  fairly  claim  a  return.  The 
Major  has  borne  very  little  part  in  the  relations  which  we 
have  heard.  Our  young  friend,  Mr.  Moran,  has  scarcely 
heard  his  own  voice  yet.  Lady  Ti'essilian,  too,  has  literally 
not  uttered  half  a  dozen  sentences." 

"  As  regards  the  lady,"  responded  Mr.  Moran,  with  all  the 
gallantry  of  his  country,  "  I  heard  her  say,  last  night,  that  she 
really  could  not  summon  courage  to  speak  for  ten  minutes  at 
one  time,  even  hefore  an  audience  so  gracious  as  she  would 
here  be  surrounded  by.  If  she  may  perform  her  devoir  by 
proxy,  I  shall  be  happy  to  narrate  a  story  for  her.  For  my 
own  share  in  contributing  to  the  gratification  of  my  friends,  I 
fear  that  I  am  more  likely  to  speak  too  much  than  too  little." 

"These  grave  points  being  thus  adjusted,"  said  the  Major, 
*'  I  am  quite  prepared  to  obey  the  call. "  But,  if  I  must  tell 
you  a  story,  it  shall,  at  least,  be  one  after  my  own  fashion." 

"After  any  fashion,"  retorted  Lady  Morton,  "so  that  you 
do  tell  it.  You  men-at-arms  so  frequently  furnish  the  mate- 
riel for  a  story,  that  we  could  forgive  you,  or,  at  least,  not  be 
very  angry,  if  you  even  advance  yourself  to  the  brevet  rank 
of  hero,  and  describe  one  of  the  scenes  in  which,  at  one  time 
or  other,  during  a  life  of  military  adventure,  you  must  have 
been  personally  mixed  up.     So,  gallant  sir,  commence." 

"  I  am  half  inclined  to  take  you  at  your  word,"  said  the 
IMajor,  "  particularly  as  your  suggestion  chimes  in  with  my 
previous  intention.  The  temptation  of  figuiing  as  a  hero, 
before  such  a  gentle  company,  is  a  great  one ;  but  I  shall 
have  the  virtue  to  resist  it.  You  shall  have  a  story  in  which 
I  appear  only  as  an  accessory — a  story  without  hero  or  hero- 
ine. I  shall  give  you  the  history  of  my  watch,  which  was 
made  for,  and  once  belonged  to,  the  Empress  Josephine." 

With  these  words,  he  produced  a  gold  repeater,  of  foreign 


1®85      *•  TRESSILIAN. 

workmanship,  and  apparently  of  considerable  value.  It  had 
several  curious  contrivances.  Among  these,  the  most  notice- 
able was  that  the  dial-plate  could  open,  when  the  repeater 
was  struck,  and  exhibit  movable  figures  of  the  twelve  signs  of 
the  Zodiac,  which  performed  various  evolutions  according  to 
the  hour.  Then,  it  could  go  for  a  great  length  of  time  with- 
out being;  wound  in  the  usual  manner,  there  beinof  some  com- 
pensating  movement  in  the  works  which  wound  the  chain  up 
on  one  side,  as  fast  as  it  went  down  on  the  other.  Besides 
this,  it  had  extra  woi-ks  which  played  two  or  three  French 
tunes.  Altogether,  it  was  curious  in  construction,  and  valua- 
ble on  account  of  that  curiosity.  When  it  had  passed  round, 
after  a  due  examination,  we  thus  heard  its  history. 


Josephine's    repeater.  199 


JOSEPIIIXE'S  REPEATER. 

When  I  was  in  my  fifteenth  year,  I  was  suddenly  taken 
from  school,  in  order  to  carry  a  pair  of  Colours  for  His  Ma- 
jesty King  George  III.  In  other  words,  the  "  Gazette  "  duly 
announced  the  appointment  of  "John  Willington  Shelton, 
Gentleman,  to  be  Ensign  in  the  28th  Regiment  of  Foot, 
without  purchase." 

The  chansre  which  these  two  lines  in  the  "Gazette"  had 
effected,  was  truly  wonderful.  I  cannot  say  that  I  had  been 
the  brightest  scholar  in  my  class,  and  therefore  had  frequently 
been  annoyed  by  being  told  that  this  lad  was  a  better  trans- 
lator of  Homer,  or  that  the  other  was  more  slcilled  in  the  prosody 
of  the  crabbed  odes  of  Horace.  But  now,  they  were  schoolboys, 
and  I  already  fancied  myself  a  future  and  honoured  hero. 
The  "  Gazette  "  had  made  a  man  of  me.  I  doubt  which  gave 
me  greater  annoyance, — the  apprehension  that  my  handsome 
uniform  would  not  arrive  in  time  to  be  worn  and  exhibited  in 
church  on  the  Sundaj^  or  the  doubt  whether  a  course  of 
industrious  shaving  for  whiskers  and  a  beard,  would  produce 
the  desired  effect  by  the  time  I  joined  my  regiment. 

The  uniform  came,  and  very  handsome  and  particularly 
becoming  did  I  think  it.  But  alas  for  the  uncertainty  of 
worldly  hopes  I — there  also  came  an  order,  that,  on  the  very 
Sunday  which  I  had  destined  for  my  debut  en  militaire  in 
the  village  church,  I  should  join  my  regiment.  There  was 
no  help  for  it.     We  were  ordered  to  go  to  Portugal. 


200  TRESSILIAX. 

By  that  day  week  we  cleared  away  from  St.  Helen's,  with. 
a  florious  breeze.  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  an  account 
of  the  unpleasantness  of  the  voyage  ;  how  we  were  tossed  in 
the  Bay  of  Biscay,  quite  as  much  as  poor  Sancho  Panza  in 
the  blanket ;  how  most  of  us  were  sea-sick,  and  all  of  us  were 
crowded,  with  a  great  many  other  "  hows  "  which,  if  put  toge- 
ther, would  suggest  a  variety  of  scenes  more  easily  imagined 
than  described,  as  novelists  are  fond  of  saying.  You  may 
take  it  for  granted,  by  my  being  in  bodily  presence  here,  that 
none  of  the  disasters  of  the  voyage  were  fatal  to  me.  On  the 
twentieth  day  from  our  leaving  England,  we  made  the  coast 
of  Portugal,  and  as  we  were  sailing  along  the  coast,  we  could 
distinctly  see  and  hear  the  firing  at  the  battle  of  Vimiera. 
Three  days  after,  having  landed  at  Peniche,  we  joined  the  con 
querers  on  the  field  of  battle.  The  Convention  of  Cintra  fol 
lowed  (to  the  great  disappointment  of  the  British  nation,  who 
had  expected  to  see  a  Marshal  of  France,  and  twenty  thou- 
sand men,  arrive  as  prisoners  at  Spithead),  and  we,  then  form- 
iTifr  part  of  the  first  brigade,  Avere  encamped  on  the  plains  of 
Queluz,  six  miles  from  Lisbon.  Here  we  did  not  long  remain, 
and  thenceforward,  as  our  regiment  eventually  became  the 
rear-guard  of  the  reserve,  we  were  more  immediately  exposed 
to  the  ill-treatment  of  the  French  in  pursuit.  At  last  came  the 
battle  of  Corunna  —  the  death  of  Sir  John  Moore  —  and 
the  return  to  England,  after  an  absence  of  six  months. 

Some  months  later,  the  28th  formed  part  of  the  fatal  expe- 
dition to  Walcheren.  Fortunately  I  was  not  one  of  the  party. 
having  remained  with  one  company  of  the  regiment  which 
had  been  left  behind  in  hospital,  at  Lisbon.  On  the  men's 
recovery,  this  company  formed  part  of  a  corps  called  the  first 
battalion  of  detachments,  from  its  consisting  of  a  company 
from  each  of  the  ten  best  regiments  in  the  service. 

I  am  sure  you  do  not  wish  me  to  run  through  the  details  of 


Josephine's  repeater.      201 

our  campaign.  Enough  to  say  that  Wellesley,  appointed  to 
the  chief  command  of  the  British  troops  in  the  Peninsula, 
was  also  nominated  Marshal-General  of  the  Portuguese 
armies — retrieved  what  Moore  had  lost,  crowned  various 
successes  by  the  battle  of  Talavera,  and,  for  that  victory, 
received  his  first  steps  in  the  peerage,  being  created  Baron 
Douro,  and  Viscouut  Wellington  of  Talavera. 

In  this  action  some  of  my  brother  officers  were  wounded — 
a  ball  brushed  rapidly  across  my  own  forehead,  cutting  a 
ridge  in  the  skin  ;  but  as  I  wrapped  my  silk  handkerchief 
round,  I  was  not  under  the  necessity  of  leaving  the  field. 
The  only  inconvenience  was  that  I  had  to  wear  this  novel 
bandaore  until  the  wound  beneath  was  healed.  A  comrade 
named  Ingram  v;as  the  victim  of  a  shot  by  which  he  suf- 
fered the  loss — of  a  doubloon.  It  had  been  rolled  up  in  the 
skirt-pocket  of  his  coat,  and  a  musket  shot  swept  it  away. 
Poor  Ingram ! — I  afterwards  saw  him  die  at  Waterloo. 

Early  on  the  morning  after  the  battle,  I  sallied  out  to  look 
at  the  field.  It  was  a  sorry  sight.  The  ground  was  strewn 
with  the  dead  and  the  wounded.  Where  the  brunt  of  the 
contest  had  taken  place  the  work  of  plunder  w-as  rapidly  pro- 
ceeding. Some  of  our  men  were  busy  enough ;  but  the  sut- 
tling  women  were  the  more  accomplished  plunderers.  They 
turned  over  the  dead,  and  searched  their  pockets  with  all  ima- 
ginable sang  froid. 

Some  twenty  or  thirty  yards  from  the  main  mass  of  plun- 
derers, was  a  group  consisting  of  three  soldiers  of  my  own 
regiment,  surrounding  a  wounded  French  uflicer.  While  in 
the  act  of  searching  him,  they  had  tumbled  him  over,  rather 
roughly,  and  this  restored  him  to  consciousness.  He  had  re- 
ceived several  sword-wounds,  had  swooned  from  loss  of  blood, 
and  had  remained  all  night  on  the  field  in  that  unconscious 
state.     When  I  came  up,  I  commanded  the  plunderers  to  quit 

0^ 


202  TRESSILIAN. 

their  prey.  They  showed  such  a  dishiclination  to  obeying 
my  orders,  that  I  question  whether  my  own  life  would  have 
been  quite  safe,  had  I  ventured  to  repeat  tliein,  if,  seeing  a 
picquet  passing  by  at  the  moment,  I  was  not  thus  enabled  to 
enforce  them.  The  French  officer  immediately  claimed  my 
protection,  and  surrendered  himself  my  prisoner.  I  had  him 
taken  to  my  own  quarters,  and  paid  him  all  attention  in  my 
power.  The  surgeon  who  examined  his  wounds,  declared 
that  in  a  few  weeks  all  inconvenience  from  them  would  be  at 
an  end. 

I  speedily  ascertained  that  my  prisoner  was  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  General  Laroche,  one  of  Napoleon's  favorite  offi- 
cers. On  reporting  my  good  fortune  to  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley, 
he  desired  me  to  keep  my  prisoner  safely,  and  readily  con- 
sented to  his  remaining  in  my  quarters,  on  his  parole. 

Natural  gratitude  on  his  part,  and  my  own  sympathy  for 
his  sufferings,  soon  united  General  Laroche  and  myself  in  the 
bonds  of  friendship.  In  time,  giving  me  his  fullest  confidence, 
he  told  me  that  I  had  preserved  more  than  his  life,  for  that, 
finding  his  Imperial  master's  ambition  of  universal  sove- 
reio-nly  at  variance  with  his  own  republican  principles,  he  Iiad 
become  anxious  to  embrace  the  first  honourable  opportunity  of 
quitting  the  service,  and,  anticipating  opposition  and  persecu- 
tion from  Napoleon,  had  secretly  realized  most  of  his  convert- 
ible property  into  bills  on  America,  the  whole  of  which  were 
on  his  person  when  my  opportune  arrival  had  prevented  their 
being  forcibly  taken  away  fi'om  him.  His  wife  and  children 
he  had  already  sent  to  the  United  States,  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  campaign  in  Spain,  and  as  his  wife  was  an  Amer- 
ican by  birth,  he  had  a  feasible  pretext  for  their  departure. 
But  his  own  resolution  was  to  join  them,  whenever  he  could 
do  so  with  honour,  and  in  safety,  and  the  funds  which  he  pos- 
sessed would  afibrd  them  a  competency  in  another  countiy. 


Josephine's    repeater.  203 

In  a  short  time,  General  Larocbe  was  completely  restored 
to  health,  and  in  an  interview  with  Lord  Viscount  Wel- 
lington (for  his  new  honours  were  now  known),  took  the 
opportunity  of  detailing  his  obligations  to  myself.  What  fur- 
ther passed  I  know  not,  but  Lord  Wellington  restored  him 
to  liberty,  on  his  parole  not  to  serve  during  the  campaign, 
against  the  British  army.  I  was  sent  for  at  the  close  of  the 
private  interview,  and  went  to  Lord  Wellington's  quarters,  in 
company  with  Lieutenant  Charles  Teulon,  a  brother  officer  of 
some  two  years  longer  service  than  myself.  Lord  Wellington 
in  his  usual  curt  manner — as  if  words,  like  ammunition, 
should  not  be  wasted,  but  kept  for  service — complimented  me 
on  the  report  which  my  quondam  prisoner  had  made  of  my 
conduct,  and  informed  me  that  he  wiis  now  discharged  from 
my  custody.  It  was  then  that  General  Laroche,  taking  out 
his  watch,  requested  my  acceptance  of  it,  as  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  my  having  preserved  his  life  and  property.  Lord  Wel- 
lington said,  with  a  smile,  "  He  can  scarcely  accept  it  for  per- 
forming his  duty — and  humanity  is  as  necessary  to  a  soldier 
as  courage — but  I  venture  to  say  he  will  be  proud  to  preserve 
such  a  memorial  of  your  friendship."  Thus  the  watch  came 
into  my  possession.  I  had  the  honour  of  dining  at  head 
quarters  that  day,  in  company  with  General  Laroche,  and 
heard,  soon  after,  that  he  had  succeeded  in  finding  a  ship 
bound  from  Oporto  to  Philadelphia,  in  which  he  embarked. 
We  heard,  too,  that  he  had  safely  rejoined  his  family  in  the 
United  States. 

As  I  am  giving  you  an  adventure  of  my  own,  and  am  not 
inclined  to  weary  you  by  relating  in  detail  what  part  my  regi- 
ment took  in  the  campaign,  after  the  Battle  of  Talavera,  it 
may  be  sufficient  to  say  that  we  did  our  duty,  crowning  all 
with  the  victory  of  Toulouse,  which  ended  the  Peninsular  War. 

One  circumstance  which  occurred  in  the  early  part  of  the 


204  ,  -        ■  T  R  E  S  S  I  L  I  A  N  .  ,  - )  „, 

campaign  has  supplied  the  28tli  with  so  much  matter  for  con- 
versation to  this  day,  that  perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  to  men- 
tion it.  Early  in  the  winter  of  1810,  when  the  British  troops 
had  retired  within  the  celebrated  lines  of  Torres  Vedras,  our 
regiment  was  quartered  at  Bucellas,  a  village  famous  for  the 
dinner-wine  which  bears  its  name.  Every  house  was  a  wine- 
store.  Not  only  were  the  cellars  and  out-houses  crowded 
with  wine-vessels,  but  immense  vats,  each  containing  several 
hogsheads,  were  to  be  found  in  the  kitchens  and  sitting- 
rooms  of  the  houses  occupied  by  the  officers  and  men.  Of 
course  we  paid  pretty  fairly  for  what  was  consumed,  this  be- 
ing a  point  on  which  Lord  Wellington  was  particular — but 
the  temptation  to  use  this  wine,  whether  the  owner  were  or 
were  not  at  hand  to  dispose  of  it  by  measure,  was  irresistible. 
Accordingly,  the  men  took  it  very  freely,  at  all  times.  On 
one  occasion,  the  officers  of  our  light  company  had  invited 
some  other  officers  to  a  wine-party,  but  either  the  consump- 
tion was  greater  than  we  anticipated,  or  the  supply  less,  for 
our  stock  of  wine  for  the  evening  was  soon  exhausted.  The 
junior  subaltern,  officiating  as  cellar-man,  went  to  a  large  vat 
in  the  room  beneath,  for  a  fresh  supply — every  one  having 
agreed,  after  a  good  deal  of  critical  tasting  and  comparing, 
that  the  wine  from  that  particular  vat  was  by  far  the  best 
that  they  had  drank  for  a  long  time,  its  peculiar  merit,  as  I 
recollect,  being  that  it  was  not  such  a  thin  libation  as  we  usu- 
ally got,  but,  to  use  the  professional  ^^hrase,  "had  more  body." 
The  young  officer  turned  the  cock,  and,  as  no  wine  ran,  re- 
ported that  the  vat  was  dry.  As  I  had  drawn  off  wine  only 
a  few  hours  before,  and  knew  that  nobody  could  subsequently 
have  had  access  to  the  vessel,  I  affirmed  that  there  must  be  an 
abundant  supply.  We  resolved,  therefore,  to  let  down  a 
camp-kettle  through  a  huge  trap-door  in  the  top  of  the  vat. 
We  had  some  difficulty  in  filling  it,  and  while  doing  so,  made 


Josephine's  repeater.      205 

a  discovery  which,  rather  than  break  in  upon  the  hilarious 
enjoyment  of  the  party,  we  kept  to  ourselves  until  the  next 
day  :  we  found  that  the  obstacle  in  the  wine-vat  was  a  Brit- 
ish drummer,  in  full  regimentals — pack,  haversack,  and  all — • 
floating  in  the  wine.  He  had  been  missing  for  some  days, 
and  there  was  a  suspicion  that  he  had  deserted.  He  had 
probably  gone  to  the  vat  to  fish  up  some  wine  (for  his  pitcher 
was  found  attached  to  his  hand  by  a  bit  of  string),  and, 
losing  his  balance,  had  fallen  through  the  trap  in  the  cover. 
For  a  long  time,  we  used  to  speak  of  the  excellence  of  our 
"  Drummer  Wine  " — and  though  the  officers  declined  taking 
any  more  of  it,  the  men  gave  Christian  burial  to  the 
drowned  drummer,  and  made  no  scruple  in  drinking  the 
remainder  of  the  liquor,  continuing  enthusiastic  in  praise  of 
its  superiority,  years  after  the  incident  occurred. 

When  the  campaign  concluded,  we  returned  home,  and 
landed  at  the  Cove  of  Cork,  early  in  July,  1814.  By  this 
time,  I  was  in  the  list  of  Captains,  and  though  I  had  received 
several  wounds,  had  fortunately  escaped  all  material  injury. 
I  need  scarcely  say  how  grateful  Irish  hospitality  was  to  us 
after  the  hardships  we  had  encountered.  My  watch  and  my- 
self were  in  equal  request.  One  of  my  friends  had  boasted 
that,  with  my  own  hand,  I  had  captured  one  of  Napoleon's 
Generals,  who  had  presented  me  with  a  wonderful  combina- 
tion of  mechanical  contrivances  in  the  shape  of  a  watch, 
which  did  all  but  speak,  and  I  was  compelled,  at  least  a  dozen 
times  every  evening,  to  produce  the  watch,  to  strike  the  re- 
peater, to  make  the  dial  open,  to  exhibit  the  moving  figures, 
and  make  the  musical  works  play  Henri  Quaire. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  the  machinery  or  my  own 
patience  would  first  have  been  worn  out,  if  the  esc?.pe  of  Na- 
poleon from  Elba,  and  its  consequences,  had  not  again  called 
the  28th  into  active  service — ^just  at  the  moment,  too,  when 


206  TRESSILIAN. 

it  was  en  route  for  Bermuda.  On  reaching  the  Netherlands, 
we  formed  part  of  the  Fighting  Division,  under  Sir  Thomas 
Picton. 

The  inhabitants  of  Brussels  treated  us  very  kindly ;  but 
there  came  constant  rumours  of  Napoleon's  advance  with  an 
overpowering  force  ;  and  it  was  clear  that  the  citizens  would 
have  been  glad  if  the  British  troops  were  any  where  at  that 
time,  but  with  them.  Wellington  had  accepted  an  invitation  to 
a  very  brilliant  ball  from  the  Duchess  of  Richmond's  at  Brus- 
sels, on  the  evening  of  the  loth  of  June,  to  which  a  great 
many  of  the  English  officers  were  invited.  Unwilling  to 
alarm  the  inhabitants,  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  who  had 
received  certain  information  that  the  Prussians  could  not 
successfully  resist  the  French,  quietly  sent  orders  through  the 
cantonments,  that  the  troops  should  be  in  readiness  to  con- 
centrate at  Quatre  Bras ;  at  the  same  time,  he  determined 
to  attend  the  ball  himself,  with  his  officers,  which  he  did, 
with  his  usual  calmness  and  coolness,  and  thus  prevented  the 
suspicion  of  peril  being  so  near.  At  this  ball  his  Grace 
received  intelligence  of  the  actual  commencement  of  hostili- 
ties by  Napoleon. 

I  was  one  of  the  company  at  the  ball,  and,  quietly  retired, 
with  the  rest,  hurrying  to  quarters  to  change  my  full  dress 
for  equipments  better  suited  to  the  hard  service  of  war.  This 
done,  I  hastened  to  the  Park,  where  my  regiment  was  already 
mustering  under  arms.  As  we  were  momently  expecting 
orders  to  march,  my  fiiend,  Charles  Teulon,  asked  me  what 
was  the  hour.  1  felt  for  my  watch — the  watch — but  it  was 
gone  !  I  remembered  having  left  it  on  the  table  when  I  was 
changing  my  dress,  and  could  not  be  dessuaded  even  at  the 
risk  of  being  absent  from  my  men  when  the  order  to  march 
should  be  given,  from  hastily  returning  to  my  quarters,  in 
search  of  my  treasure.     It  was  gone.     Search  was  in  vain ; 


Josephine's  repeater.       207 

and,  ninning  back  to  the  Park,  I  was  barely  in  time  to  accom- 
pany my  regiment,  which  had  just  received  Picton's  orders  to 
advance. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  fatigue  you  with  details  of  Welling- 
ton's action  at  Quatre  Bras,  with  Ney,  on  that  very  day.  On 
the  17th  there  was  no  fighting.  Both  armies  were  preparing 
for  the  encounter  on  the  18th  of  June.  Wellington  fell  back 
on  Waterloo.  There,  as  at  Quatre  Bras,  we  had  to  repel  the 
furious  charges  of  the  enemy,  and  doggedly  maintain  our  po- 
sition until  the  close  of  the  day. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  "  the  day  of 
Waterloo,"  that  a  group  of  officers,  of  whom  I  was  one,  stood 
beneath  the  tree  close  to  which  Picton  had  fallen.  One  of 
them,  a  brave  fellow,  named  Clarke,  said  to  me,  "  Ah,  Shelton, 
we  have  escaped  this  time  !"  I  replied  that  we  had,  to  my 
surprise,  as  I  never  yet  bad  been  in  a  pitched  engagement, 
without  receiving  some  wound.  While  I  was  speaking,  a 
shell  (certainly  one  of  the  last  fired  on  that  field)  fell,  and 
burst  among  us.  One  of  the  splinters  wounded  Clarke  so 
mortally,  that  he  died  at  Brussels,  three  days  after.  My  own 
right  arm  was  shattered. 

Some  days  after  the  battle,  I  found  myself  in  a  house  at 
Brussels,  carefully  and  kindly  attended.  I  fancied,  as  I  lay  in 
a  state  between  sleep  and  watchfulness,  that  I  saw  General 
Laroche  bending  over  me.  Nor  was  I  mistaken.  It  was 
himself,  indeed.  I  was  beneath  his  roof,  and  there  I  remained 
till  my  wound  was  nearly  healed. 

He  told  me  that  after  Napoleon's  first  abdication,  his  heart 
yearned  for  his  country,  and  that  he  had  returned  from  Ame- 
rica, with  his  family.  In  the  unsettled  state  of  France,  at 
and  after  the  Restoration,  he  deemed  it  politic  to  join  neither 
party,  and  had  taken  up  his  residence  at  Brussels.  There  he 
had  lived  for  some  months,  in  comparative  seclusion,  with  his 


208  TRESSILIAN. 

happy  family.  After  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  all  the  private 
houses  in  Brussels  were  put  in  requisition  for  the  wounded  ; 
and  by  a  curious  chance — if  there  can  be  such  a  thing  as 
chance  in  the  world — his  hospitality  had  been  challenged  for 
myself. 

Were  this  a  romance,  instead  of  a  very  simple  story,  it 
would  not  be  difficult  to  become  pathetic  over  the  truly  affect- 
ing scene  of  my  introduction  to  his  family,  by  General 
Laroche,  as  the  officer  who  had  saved  his  life,  after  the  battle 
of  Talavera.  You  may  be  sure  that  I  was  much  touched  by 
the  grateful  expression  of  thanks  which  this  kind  household 
conveyed  to  me  by  word,  look,  and  action.  They  considered 
and  treated  me  rather  as  a  near  and  dear  kinsman,  than  a 
stranger  in  blood,  language,  and  country. 

I  had  been  two  months  ia  Laroche's  house  before  I  could 
summon  courage  to  announce  the  loss  of  his  splendid  souve- 
nir, which  had  been  doubly  valuable  to  me  from  the  associ- 
ations connected  with  it.  At  length,  as  it  happened,  the 
subject  was  introduced  by  himself  "As  I  have  not  seen  the 
watch  with  you,"  said  he,  "  may  I  presume  that  it  has  been 
transferred  to  the  safe  custody  of  a  fairer  hand  ?  Since,  I 
parted  from  you  in  Spain,  have  you  espoused  another  mistress 
than  glory  ?"  I  told  him  how  I  had  lost  his  gift.—"  Well," 
said  he,  "  as  your  English  proverb  says,  '  watches  were  made 
to  go.'  I  must  own  that  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  it  was  a  gift  to 
myself  from  the  Empress  Josephine,  and  to  none  but  the  pre- 
server of  my  life  would  I  have  given  it.  JV'importe  : — it  is 
but  the  fortune  of  war.  We  must  find  you  another  watch." 
— "  This  time,"  said  Madame  Laroche,  "  permit  me  to  supply 
it.  Wear  mine,"  and  here  she  took  her  watch  from  her  side 
"  I  shall  lend  it  to  you  until  your  own  is  restored  to  you." — 
"  There  is  little  prospect  of  that,"  I  answered. — "  Nay,"  said 
she,  smiling,  "  I  am  something  of  a  seer,  and  have  a  presenti- 


Josephine's    repeater.  209 

ment  that  you  have  not  lost  the  Empress's  watch  for  ever.  It 
■will  come  back  some  day ;  and,  after  all,  you  will  then  dis- 
pose of  it  as  the  General  hinted  when  he  gave  it  to  you. 
When  you  wish  to  take  a  bride,  present  her  with  the  watch  ; 
if'she  accept  it,  she  must  accept  you,  after  she  has  heard  your 
story,  and  value  it,  not  only  as  having  once  belonged  to  an 
Empress  who  was  as  amiable  as  she  was  charming,  but  as  the 
gift  of  one  brave  man  to  another." 

Shortly  after  this,  I  was  pronounced  well  enough  to  join 
my  regiment,  which  had  gone  forward  to  Paris. 

When  the  Duke  reviewed  the  whole  of  the  British  army 
on  the  plains  of  St.  Denis,  there  exhibiting  to  the  Allied  Sov- 
ereigns the  evolutions  of  the  battle  of  Salamanca,  one  of 
his  most  splendid  achievements,  our  regiment  particularly 
engaged  the  attention  of  the  Emperor  Alexander,  who  loudly 
expressed  his  admiration  of  our  Grenadier  Company,  which 
was  certainly  one  of  the  finest  in  the  service.  Two  things 
excited  his  curiosity — he  was  "anxious  to  know  why  we  had 
brown  calfskin  packs,  and  why  we  bore  the  number  of  the 
regiment  on  the  back  as  well  as  the  front  of  our  caps.  The 
answer  was  that  we  had  found  the  packs  in  a  French  store 
which  we  captured  in  Egypt,  and  that  we  bore  the  distinctive 
badge  in  our  caps  to  commemorate  a  circumstance  which 
occurred  in  Egypt  at  the  battle  of  Alexandria,  on  the  day  of 
Abercrombie's  death,  when,  being  attacked  by  infantry  in 
front,  and  by  cavalry  in  rear,  the  rear-ranks  went  to  the  right 
about,  delivered  their  fire,  and  the  assailants  were  totally 
repulsed  on  all  sides. 

With  your  permission,  I  shall  pass  the  long  interval 
between  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  the  summer  of  1830. 
The  wound  which  I  received  at  Waterloo,  though  it  did  not 
cause  the  loss  of  my  right  arm,  caused  me  great  pain  during 
many  years,  during  which  I  was  so  entirely  deprived  of  its 


210  TRE8  SI  LI  A  N. 

use  that  I  bad  to  write  with  my  left  hand — a  feat  in  which 
practice  soon  made  me  perfect.  Meanwhile,  I  had  obtained 
my  majority,  and  had  been  made  Companion  of  the  Bath. 
Active  service  was  certainly  at  an  end.  I  had  succeeded  to 
some  landed  property,  by  the  death  of  near  relatives ;  and 
these  things,  together  with  my  shattered  health,  induced  me 
to  retire  on  half-pay,  and  turn  my  sword  into  a  ploughshare. 

I  had  made  arrangements  to  leave  Eno-land  for  Brussels,  on 
the  16th  of  June,  1830 — the  anniversary  of  my  beautiful 
watch's  disappearance.  My  old  friend.  General  Laroche,  had. 
been  my  guest  in  Devonshire  several  times  since  we  parted 
after  Waterloo,  and  I  was  now  bound  on  a  return-visit  to 
him,  and  to  assist,  as  our  across-the-channel  neighbours  term 
it,  at  the  marriage  of  his  eldest  daughter.  My  seat  had  been 
in  the  Dover  mail,  and  I  was  rapidly  walking  from  the  City 
to  Charing  Cross,  when  I  noticed  a  quantity  of  cheap 
watches,  and  a  low-priced  set  of  the  Waverley  Novels  in  a 
pawnbroker's  window,  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  Strand, 
a  few  doors  beyond  Holywell  street.  As  my  servant  had 
given  me  a  few  pounds,  a  short  time  before,  with  which  to 
buy  a  watch  for  him,  I  stepped  into  the  shop  lo  make  the 
purchase.  A  great  variety  was  exhibited,  but  I  was  rather 
hard  to  please,  as  I  wished  to  get  a  good  one,  at  a  somewhat 
higher  price  than  my  man  had  named,  by  making  up  the 
difference  out  of  my  own  pocket.  Having  selected  a  watch, 
and  duly  paid  for  it,  the  vendor,  who  saw  that  I  had  gold 
and  notes  in  my  purse,  said  he  should  like  to  tempt  me  with 
a  beautiful  specimen  of  workmanship  which  he  could  sell  at 
a  low  rate.  He  produced  a  drawer  full  of  gold  watches,  and 
from  the  heap,  took  one  which  was  carefully  laid  up  in  a 
chamois  bag.  He  drew  it  from  its  cover,  and  exhibited — my 
long-lost  Talavera  relic. 

I  was  so  prudent  as  not  to  indicate,  by  gesture  or  word, 


Josephine's    repeater.  211 

the  pleasure  and  surprise  I  experienced  at  thus  seeing  my 
old  and  valued  watch,  after  an  absence  of  fifteen  years.  I 
examined  it  as  carefully  as  if  I  had  never  seen  it  before  — 
taking  good  care  not  to  touch  the  repeating  spring,  not  to 
move  the  dial,  and  not  to  make  the  music  play.  I  opened  it, 
to  satisfy  myself  that  it  indeed  was  my  own,  and  on  the 
inside  I  saw  the  initials  J.  W.  S.,  which  I  had  rudely  scratched 
on  the  inner  case  with  my  penknife.  Thus  the  identity  was 
unquestionable.  The  difficulty  was — how  to  recover  it.  The 
man  who  offered  it  for  sale  demanded  thirty  guineas,  and  said 
that  about  fourteen  years  before,  he  had  advanced  fifteen 
guineas  on  it,  to  a  person,  whom  he  described  so  accurately, 
as  to  leave  no  doubt  that  he  was  my  own  servant,  who  had 
been  missed  after  the  battle,  and  was  believed  to  have  fallen. 
There  could  be  little  question  that  the  rascal  had  found  the 
watch  in  my  quarters  at  Brussels  (for  I  remembered  having 
left  it  on  the  table),  and  had  decamped  with  it.  The  money- 
lender, who  believed  it  to  be  simply  a  repeater  set  round  with 
gems,  had  made  an  advance  upon  it  of  about  one-tenth  of 
the  actual  value. 

Having  quitted  the  shop,  I  slowly  walked  down  the  Strand, 
musing  on  the  best  means  of  recovering  my  watch,  doubting 
whether  I  could  claim  it  as  stolen  property,  and  half-deter- 
mined to  return  and  pay  the  sum  demanded  for  it.  A  gentle- 
man hastily  ran  up  against  me.  He  paused  to  apologize,  and 
I  recopnized  my  friend  Charles  Teulon.  I  took  his  arm,  and 
inquired  what  chance  had  brought  him  to  town  ?  He  told 
me  that  nearly  three  years  before,  he  had  exchanged  on  half- 
pay,  having  determined  to  marry  and  settle  down.  "The 
28th,"  said  he,  "have  just  returned  from  Corfu,  and  our  old 
friend.  Major  Cadell,  who  led  them  into  Paris,  and  now  holds 
their  command  at  Ireland,  has  pressed  me  so  much  to  go 
over  and  pay  them  a  \asit,  that  Madame  ma  femme  has  given 


212  TRESSILIAX. 

me  leave  of  absence  for  three  weeks,  and  I  have  just  been  to 
the  Golden  Cross,  Cliaring  Cross,  to  secure  a  seat  in  the 
Bristol  Mail,  and  shall  start  this  evening." 

It  was  a  sino-ular  combination  of  circumstances,  that  I 
should  have  discovered  the  locale  ©f  General  Laroche's  watch 
on  the  very  day  fifteen  years  it  had  been  lost — that  the  only 
man,  except  the  Duke  of  Wellington  (who,  no  doubt,  had 
quite  forgotten  the  matter),  who  was  present  when  it  was 
presented  to  me,  was  Major  Teulon,  whom  I  had  not  seen  for 
nearly  eleven  years — and  that  I  should  have  accidentally  met 
him  within  five  minutes  of  the  time,  and  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  place  where  I  had  found  my  property. 

Teulon  went  to  the  shop,  purchased  some  trifle,  as  a  feint, 
piade  a  pretext  for  looking  at  the  watch,  carefully  examined 
it,  and  came  back  with  the  assurance  that  it  really  was  none 
other  than  my  own. 

I  was  acquainted  with  Sir  Richard  Birnie,  the  Police  Magis- 
trate, and  going  to  liini  at  l^ow-Street,  asked  his  advice.  He  said 
that  my  best  plan  would  be  to  purchase  the  watch,  as  the  law 
could  not  help  me  to  it,  without  money,  after  such  a  lapse  of 
years.  I  went  back,  therefore,  told  under  what  circumstances 
I  had  lost  it,  and  was  so  fortunate  as  to  recover  it  for  five-and- 
twenty  pounds,  which  I  paid  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 

Thus,  after  some  curious  adventures,  I  regained  my  watch. 
Within  forty-eight  hours,  I  was  seated  in  the  dining-room  of 
General  Laroche,  at  Brussels.  I  had  the  forbearance  not  to 
tell  my  story  on  that  day — reserving  it  for  the  next,  the  anni- 
versary of  the  contest  at  Waterloo,  after  which  my  friend  had 
revived  me,  wounded,  unconscious,  and  apparently  dying.  I 
was  even  so  ungallant  as  not  to  hear  Madame  Laroche  when 
she  inquired  whether  I  had  heard  of  the  watch. 

Next  evening  came  the  marriage.  At  the  little  feast  which 
followed,  Laroche  proposed  my  health,  as  one  to  whom  he 


Josephine's    repeater,  213 

owed  life  and  happiness.  It  was  expected  that  I  should  say  a 
few  words.  The  silence  was  broken  by  the  watch.  I  held  it 
under  the  table  on  a  wine-glass,  to  increase  the  sound,  and 
made  it  suddenly  play  the  well-remembered  air  of  "  Henri 
QuatreP  Some  one  said,  "  it  is  a  musical  box,"  but  Madame 
Laroche  exclaimed,  "  No — it  is  the  watch !"  Then  it  was 
handed  round,  examined,  and  admired — and  I  told  how  I  had 
obtained,  lost,  and  recovered  it.  And  I  saw  tears  in  bright 
eyes,  at  the  thought  of  the  perils  which  the  owners  of  the 
watch  had  successively  gone  through.  Finally,  I  restored  to 
Madame  Laroche  the  watch  she  had  lent  me,  at  Brussels,  iu 
1815,  and  confessed  that  her  presentiment  was  true,  after  all ; 
and  then,  as  an  old  friend  who  had  known  and  petted  her  as 
a  child,  I  threw  round  the  neck  of  the  bride  a  chain  to  which 
was  attached  one  of  our  English  watches — the  best,  be  assured, 
that  Dent  could  make. 

This  ends  my  story.  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  I  have 
been  wasting  time  on  personal  adventures  of  no  interest,  ex- 
cept to  those  actually  concerned,  but  the  facts  are  all  true  to 
the  letter. 


214  TRESSILIAN. 

"  You  Lave  made  an  excellent  story  of  them,"  said  tlie  fair 
widow,  "  but  it  wants  a  heroine." 

"  She  is  yet  to  come,"  replied  the  Major,  in  rather  a  confi- 
dential manner.  "You  may  recollect  that  though  I  have 
lono-  since  returned  to  Madame  Laroche  the  watch  she  lent 
me  at  Brussels,  my  story  is  yet  incomplete  for  want  of  a  de- 
nouement.    Will  you  supply  it  by  becoming  the  owner — " 

"  Of  the  watch  ?" 

"  And  its  master  : — unfortunately,  it  must  be  clogged  with 
that  condition,  as  I  ventured  to  tell  you  last  autumn,  at  Weis- 
baden,  when  I  did  not  anticipate  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you 
here." 

Tlieir  eves  met.  I  am  confident  that  the  lady  blushed. 
She  softly  said,  "  "What  nonsense  !"  and — did  not  look  angry. 

The  watch  lay  upon  the  table  where  it  had  been  placed  at 
the  commencement  of  the  story,  when  it  had  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  examined  by  all.  The  lady  took  it  up,  as 
if  half  unconsciously.  "  It  is  much  too  handsome, ' '  said  she, 
&otto  voce,  "for  a  gentleman  to  wear.  There  would  be  too 
much  of  the  petit-maitre  in  a  man's  constantly  carrying  about 
him  such  an  ornament  as  this,  rich  with  gems  too." 

"  You  will  recollect,"  responded  the  Major,  "  that  it  was 
made  for,  and  worn  by  an  Empress." 

"  I  would  prize  it  more,"  said  she,  "  because,  to  quote 
Madame  Laroche's  words,  it  was  the  gift  of  one  brave  man 
to  another." 

There  was  encouragement  in  this.  What  next  the  Major 
said  I  did  not  hear,  for  I  was  a  little  distance  off,  though 
between  them  and  the  rest  of  the  party,  and  I  did  not  wish  to 
become  an  involuntary  confidant.  But  the  lady  blushed  a 
second  time,  looked  down  for  a  moment,  then  raised  her 
bright  eyes  full  upon  the  Major's  face,  and  only  said — 
"Perhaps." 


FLIRTATION.  215 

That  is  not  a  very  long  word,  nor  a  very  strong  word,  nor, 
indeed,  a  word  usually  expressing  anything  but  a  degree  of 
doubt.  But  the  Major  appeared  to  think  it  a  very  satisfactory 
word,  for  he  took  the  lady's  hand,  and  raised  to  his  lips.  I 
ara  not  sure  that  he  did  not  squeeze  that  little  hand — I  am 
certain  that  he  kissed  it.  And  then  he  attempted  to  throw 
the  chain  over  her  neck — probably  to  show  how  gracefully 
be  had  performed  the  same  feat  when  presenting  General 
Laroche's  daughter  with  her  watch  ;  but  the  widow,  at  that 
moment,  caught  a  glance  from  Lady  Tressilian,  and,  exclaim- 
ing, "  Not  yet,"  hastily  ran  across  the  lawn,  took  her  friend's 
arm,  and  presently  I  saw  them,  in  a  very  confidential  manner, 
talking  to  each  other  as  they  walked  in  that  part  of  the 
garden  which  stretches  out  so  beautifully  at  the  back  of  the 
hotel.  Soon  after.  Lady  Tressilian  cast  a  glance  toward  the 
lime-tree,  by  which  the  Major  continued  to  stand,  and  play- 
fully shook  her  head  at  him.  Very  speedily  he  joined  the 
two  ladies,  and,  from  all  that  occurred — for  even  looks  may 
sometimes  count  as  occurrences — I  formed  a  decided  opinion, 
which  I  left  for  Time  to  confirm  or  defeat,  that,  before  long, 
the  watch  would  change  ownership,  the  lady  change  her 
name,  and  the  Weisbaden  acquaintance  end  in  depriving  the 
Major  of  his  liberty — for  life. 

When  the  trio  returned,  Lady  Tressilian  smiled  very  signi- 
ficantly at  her  husband,  Lady  Morton  appeared  somewhat, 
conscious,  and  the  Major's  look  was  extremely  triumphant. 
What  could  all  this  denote,  except  that  one  lady  had  a  secret 
in  which  the  other  was  interested,  and  that  the  gentleman, 
by  some  means  or  other,  was  also  a  party  involved,  and  proud 
or  happy  at  being  so? 

Fortunately  for  the  trio,  just  at  this  moment  sounded  "that 
tocsin  of  the  soul  — the  dinner  bell."  There  was  a  simulta- 
neous scattering  of  the  whole  party,  to  perform  the  duties  of 


216  TRESSILIAN. 

the  toilet.  In  due  time  was  the  reassembling  —  the  repast — • 
the  agreeable  interchange  of  courtesy  and  compliment,  and, 
to  crown  all,  the  pleasant  conversation,  which  gave  a  charm 
to  the  whole.  Bye  ?nd  bye.  Lady  Tressilian  expressed  a  desire 
that  the  story-telling  of  the  ante-prandial  meal  should  be 
resumed  (the  Johnsonian  compound  did  not  fall  from  her 
rosy  lips),  and  there  was  an  unanimous  exclamation  of  assent. 
Our  friend  the  Artist  was  so  kind  as  to  offer  to  break  the  ice, 
and  we  listened  with  attentive  expectation  to  the  adventure 
which  he  thus  related  : 


THE     SECOND     SIGHT.  217 


THE  SECOND  SIGHT. 

A  FKW  years  ago,  in  the  Scottish  Highlands,  the  chapter 
of  accidents  threw  me  into  chance  companionship  with  a 
gentleman,  in  whose  society  a  wet  evening  passed  on  pleas- 
antly and  rapidly,  in  conversation  upon  a  variety  of  subjects, 
which  turned,  at  length,  to  The  Second  Sight,  which  even 
yet  is  claimed  for  a  few  ancient  families — those  of  indisput- 
able Celtic  descent.  It  was  not  until  he  saw  that  I  possessed 
some  hereditary  respect  for  the  superstition  in  question,  and 
was  not  much  of  a  sceptic  as  to  the  grounds  for  crediting  it, 
that  I  could  get  my  companion  to  discuss  it  with  the  freedom 
which  had  previously  characterized  our  discourse  upon  other 
topics. 

"  In  my  own  family,"  said  he,  "the  Second  Sight  has  been  ex- 
ercised from  time  immemorial.  In  some  Scottish  families  which 
also  possess  this  prophetic  vision,  the  gift  has  descended  from 
father  to  son;  in  ours,  from  a  circumstance  which  it  would  be 
tedious  to  relate,  it  has  been  delivered  by  the  succession  from 
grandfether  to  grandson,  there  always  being  the  lapse  of  one, 
in  its  exercise  by  the  respective  parties.*  Thus,  supposing 
that  my  grandfather  possessed  this  gift,  it  would  not  descend 
to  ray  father,  but  the  line  of  succession  would  be  continued 
to  myself. 

*  In  Martin's  Description  of  the  Western  Highlands,  It  Is  said :  "  This  faculty  of  the 
second-sight  does  not  lineally  descend  in  a  family,  as  some  imagine,  for  I  know  sev- 
eral parents  who  are  endowed  with  it,  and  their  children  not,  and  vice  versa.'" 

10 


218  TRESSILIAN. 

"  My  grandfather,  wlio  resided  near  Ciilloden  Moor,  Bad 
taken  a  wife  shortly  before  the  second  Jacobite  outbreak.  On 
the  morning  of  the  15th  of  April,  1746,  he  sat  down  to  break- 
fast, with  such  a  grave  countenance,  that  his  bride  was  in- 
duced to  enquire  what  circumstance  had  gloomed  it.  He 
attempted  to  evade  the  enquiry,  which  her  womanly  affection 
and  curiosity  had  made,  but  she  pressed  him  so  closely  on  the 
point,  that  he  confessed  to  having  seen  a  shadow  of  coming 
evil — that  in  a  word,  he  had  beheld,  by  anticipation,  a  bloody 
fight,  close  to  their  habitation,  in  which  the  defeat  of  the 
kilted  Highlanders,  by  the  red-coat  soldiers  of  the  Hanoverr 
ian  dynasty,  clearly  intimated  the  downfall  of  the  Chevalier's 
cause.  My  father  vvas  himself  a  well-wisher  to  the  Stuarts, 
and  the  head  of  our  clan  had  forfeited  his  Earldom  and 
estates,  and  had  narrowly  escaped  with  life,  on  account  of  his 
active  participation  in  the  Rebellion  of  1715.  'But,'  said  my 
father,  '  I  saw  also,  my  Isabella,  that  we  shall  receive  a  gallant 
and  Royal  leader  under  our  roof  this  evening.  It  can  be  no 
other  than  The  Prince,  and  it  behoves  you  to  make  the  best 
preparation  for  him.'  In  Scotland,  at  that  time,  the  wife's 
motto  was  to  hear  and  to  obey,  and  she  who  was  thus  spoken 
to,  hastened  to  put  her  house  in  order,  and  make  it  ready  for 
the  reception  of  the  visioned  guest.  A  few  minutes  before 
midnight,  the  tramp  of  cavalry  was  heard  approaching.  It 
came  near — nearer.  The  horses  drew  up  at  my  grandfather's 
gate.  A  loud  knocking  brought  out  the  inmates,  and  they 
received  as  a  claimant  on  their  hospitality  one  who  certainly 
was  a  Royal  leader,  but  not  exactly  him  whom  they  expected. 
Instead  of  bonny  Prince  Charlie,  it  was  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land, then  a  strong,  stout,  active  man,  who  was  five-and-twenty 
years  old,  on  that  very  day." 

"  His  advent,"  said  I,  "  must  have  been  something  of  a  dis- 
appointment ?" 


THE     SECOND     SIGHT.  219 

"It  was.  The  Duke  had  ridden  forward  from  Nairn,  in 
pursuit,  and  sat  up  during  the  greater  part  of  the  night, 
merely  snatching  an  hour's  sleeep  on  the  bed,  without  tak- 
ing oft'  his  clothes.  He  quitted  the  house  at  daybreak,  and 
the  most  noticeable  thing  remembered  of  him  was,  that  he 
ate  most  voraciously,  and  took  enormous  quantities  of  snuft', 
or  sneeshen,  as  it  was  then  called.  He  demanded  the  loan  of 
a  snuft-box,  as  he  went  away.  The  worst  in  the  bouse, 
namely  a  common  Scotch  mull,  was  filled  and  handed  to  him 
— for,  sooth  to  say,  independent  of  my  grandfathers  sympa- 
thies being  with  the  Stuarts,  he  never  expected  to  see  his  box 
again.  Two  or  three  days  after  the  battle,  however,  a  soldier 
rode  up  to  the  house,  asked  for  its  occupant  by  name,  and 
restored  him  the  box,  with  the  Duke's  compliments  and 
thanks  !  "When  opened,  it  was  found  to  be  filled  with  gui- 
neas. In  this  manner,  the  Duke  had  chosen  to  make  his 
acknowledgments  for  the  niglit's  lodging  which  had  been  un- 
willingly aftbrded  him.  The  box,  thus  used  by  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  during  the  eventful  day  of  CuUoden,  has  been 
preserved  in  our  family,  as  a  sort  of  heir-loom,  and  you  may 
see  it  now,  if  you  have  the  slightest  curiosity." 

In  compliance  with  my  desire,  the  box  was  produced.  It 
was  a  very  plain  Scotch  mull,  without  the  slightest  ornament, 
except  a  small  silver-tip  on  the  cover,  by  which  to  open  it, 
and  a  slight  silver  rim  of  the  same  rhaterial,  round  the  top. 
On  the  cover  had  been  rudely  scratched  something  like  a 
shield,  containinfr  what  I  was  herald  enourjh  to  designate  as  a 
staff's  head,  cabossed." 

"  I  keep  this  box,"  said  its  owner,  "  precisely  as  it  was  de- 
livered to  me — the  only  portion  of  my  father's  property  that 
ever  came  into  my  possession  after  his  death.  Not  having 
the  smaller  vices  of  smoking  or  snufiino; — indeed,  having  as 
much  antipathy  for  '  the  weed,'  as  ever  King  James  had — I 


220  TRESSILIAN. 

yet  keep  it,  as  a  memorial  of  its  last,  rather  than  its  original 
possessor." 

"  Yet,"  said  I,  "  if  it  does  not '  point  a  moral,'  you  are  now 
makinsf  it  '  adorn  a  tale.'  " 

"We  have  another  memorial  of  the  fatal  contest  at  Culloden," 
said  he,  "  to  which  the  Jacobite  feelings  of  my  family  have 
attached  a  value  more  relative  than  real.  For  my  own  part,  I 
have  always  thought  it  fortunate,  that  this  country  had  a 
happy  riddance  of  the  Stuarts — a  race,  at  once  weak  and  wil- 
ful, headstrong  and  tyrannic.  The  nation  acted  well  in  calling 
to  the  throne  a  prince  of  its  own  choice — thus  establishing 
the  principle  of  an  elective  monarchy.  The  battle  of  Cullo- 
den, as  you  know,  was  the  death-blow  to  the  Chevalier's  hopes. 
There  is  little  doubt,  now,  that  the  unfortunate  Prince 
behaved,  in  that  battle,  with  spirit  and  bravery.  His  earnest, 
desire  was  to  rally  the  Highlanders,  broken  by  the  first  deadly 
discharge  of  the  English  artillery — to  lead  them  on — and  to 
risk  all  on  that  hazard.  But  Sir  Thomas  Sullivan  seized  his 
bridle,  turned  his  horse  round,  and  conducted  him  ofi"  the 
field.  You  know  how  many,  and  what  romantic  adventures 
he  passed  through,  before,  with  a  sum  of  £30,000  on  his 
head,  he  finally  effected  his  escape  to  Brittany.  On  one  of 
these  occasions,  it  was  my  grandfather's  good  fortune  to  ren- 
der him  a  signal  service,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  and,  when 
they  parted  company,  the  Chevalier  put  his  miniature  into 
his  hands,  saying  '  If  ever  Fortune  should  smile  upon  me,  let 
me  see  this,  and  you  shall  find  me  not  ungrateful !'  This  is 
the  miniature,  which  we  have  carefully  retained  in  our 
family  in  memory  of  the  Prince." 

He  handed  me  an  oval  miniature,  plainly  set  in  gilded 
brass  —  such  as,  in  latter  days,  was  called  pinchbeck,  from  the 
jeweller  who  introduced  it.  The  resemblance  was  not  to  be 
mistaken.     The  light  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  elongated  features 


THE     SECOND     SIGHT.  221 

of  the  Chevalier  have  often  been  described,  and  are  well 
known.  There  was  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Garter,  the  star 
of  that  Order  on  the  breast,  the  lace  cravat,  the  coat  of  grey- 
ish blue  tartan  striped  with  red,  and  the  crimson  mantle  with 
ermine  borderino-.  Such  was  the  likeness,  such  the  habili- 
ments  and  adornments  of  the  unfortunate  Chevalier.  I 
would  prefer  that  portrait,  in  its  humble  setting,  to  the  resem- 
blance of  any  living  Royalty.  What  a  moral  did  it  sug- 
gest. 

I  inquired  of  my  friend,  whether,  having  made  such  a  suc- 
cessful first  appearance  as  a  Seer,  his  grandfather  had  experi- 
enced any  more  visions? 

"  Certainly.  Having  made  a  commencement  so  promising, 
he  continued  to  exercise  the  faculty.  The  last  occasion, 
which  was  more  than  half  a  century  later  —  for  he  lived  to 
extreme  old  age  —  was  one  which  such  of  his  descendants  as 
heard  of  it  were  not  likely  to  forget.  My  father,  being  of  '  a 
truant  disposition,'  like  Hamlet's  friend,  took  French  leave 
of*bis  birth-place  when  he  had  scarcely  reached  his  eighteenth 
year.  The  fifteen  years  following  witnessed  his  wanderiugs 
through  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  during  all  that  time  he 
most  undutifuUy  neglected  to  hold  any  communication  with 
his  family  by  letter.  It  was  generally  believed  by  his  kins- 
men that  he  was  dead ;  but  his  father  constantly  declared 
that  he  felt  to  the  contrary,  and  his  mother  fondly  clung  to 
the  same  belief,  with  the  trust  that  a  mother's  feelings  alone 
can  retain — for  hers  was  that  hoping  against  hope,  which 
believes  rather  what  it  wishes,  than  what  circumstances 
might  make  it  fear  as  only  too  probable.  At  last,  when  me- 
mory of  him  was  almost  forgotten,  except  by  his  parents,  the 
long  absent  reappeared  in  the  scenes  of  his  youth.  The  man- 
ner in  which  he  was  received,  as  I  have  heard  him  relate  it, 
■was  inexpressibly  striking.     The  father,  white  with  the  snow 


222  TRESSILIAN. 

and  bowed  by  the  ailments  of  more  than  eighty  years,  had 
maintained  most  of  his  mental  faculties  unimpaired,  and  was 
cherished,  amid  his  children  and  his  children's  children,  as  a 
venerable  patriarch,  a  living  link  between  the  past  and  the 
present.  On  the  thirty-third  anniversary  of  the  birth-day 
of  the  absent  son — which  they  had  continued  to  celebrate 
rather  from  custom  than  from  a  belief  in  his  existence — the 
old  man  suddenly  exclaimed,  fixing  his  eyes  intently  on  the 
open  window,  '  I  see  the  return  of  the  absent :  to-night,  even 
to-night,  his  voice  will  sound  in  the  house  wherein  he  first 
drew  breath.'  Not  a  word  more  did  he  say,  but  his  wife, 
who  had  the  fullest  confidence  in  his  Second  Sight,  ordered 
that  preparations  should  instantly  be  made  for  the  reception 
of  a  guest.  The  day  had  far  declined,  and  no  visitor  appeared. 
The  younger  members  of  the  family  smiled,  in  scepticism,  at 
the  nonfulfilment  of  their  grandfather's  prediction.  At  last, 
when  it  was  now  almost  midnight,  a  step  was  heard  outside. 
The  window  had  been  left  open,  and  through  it,  though 
rather  an  unusual  mode  of  entrance,  bounded  in  the  rolffist 
man,  bronzed  with  foreign  travel,  who  had  left  the  place  when 
a  lad.  No  one  recognised  him,  except  his  aged  parents.  He 
bent  on  his  knee,  before  his  father,  for  a  blessing ;  and  the 
old  man,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  head  of  the  long  absent, 
fervently  blessed  him,  and  then  exclaimed,  in  thankfulness, 
'  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace  !'  Some 
time  was  spent  in  questions  and  replies,  and,  rather  early  in 
the  morning,  the  happy  family  retired  to  rest.  When  they 
had  arisen,  and  assembled  round  the  breakfast  table,  it  was 
noticed  that  my  grandfather's  seat  was  vacant.  One  of  his 
daughters  went  to  summon  him.  Why  need  I  prolong  my 
story  ?  She  found  him  dead.  ]>y  his  side  was  his  wife  sleep- 
ing in  happy  unconsciousness  of  her  loss.  If  ever  a  heart 
had  broken  with  joy,  it  was  that  old  man's.     Was  I  wrong  in 


THE      SECOND     SIGHT.  223 

saying  that  there  was  something  striking  in  the  wanderer's 
return  to  his  native  hills  S" 

My  companion  did  not  much  hesitate,  at  my  urgent  request, 
to  state  the  instances  in  which,  in  his  own  person,  the  faculty 
of  Second  Sight  had  been  manifested.  They  were  related,  as 
matters  of  fact,  with  such  an  apparent  faith  in  their  reality — 
and  it  should  be  remembered  that  the  narrator  was  now 
drawing  upon  his  own  experience,  in  which  there  was  scarcely 
any  chance  of  a  mistake — that  Doubt  itself  would  be  almost 
silenced  if,  even  as  I  did,  it  had  heard  the  story  told  so  much 
more  impressively  than  I  can  pretend  to  repeat  it. 

"  According  to  what  is  understood  to  be  the  usual  custom 
in  our  family,"  said  he,  "  the  faculty  of  Second  Sight  descends 
from  grandsire  to  grandson,  passing  over  the  entire  interme- 
diate descendants.  None  of  my  grandfather's  sons,  therefore, 
could  expect  to  be  endowed  with  it ;  and,  of  his  many  grand- 
sons, there  appeared  little  chance  that  I — born,  too,  out  of  Scot- 
land, and  from  an  Irish  mother — should  inherit  it.  Least  of 
all  did  such  an  idea  cross  my  own  mind  for  a  moment.  I 
was  in  my  fourteenth  year,  and  had  proceeded  to  spend  my 
school-vacation  with  relations  in  the  country.  My  father, 
when  I  left  home,  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  that  rude  health 
which  had  always  distinguished  him,  and  made  him  then, 
though  in  his  sixtieth  year,  a  much  stronger  man  than  many 
who  were  his  juniors  by  ten  or  fifteen  years.  I  was  in  the 
country,  when,  one  morning,  it  chanced  that  I  sat  alone — if 
I  can  say  that  I  was  alone,  with  one  of  Scott's  novels  in  my 
hand — when,  happening  to  raise  my  eyes  towards  the  fire- 
place, over  which  was  placed  a  large  mirror,  I  saw  my  father 
standing  by  it,  with  his  arm  resting  on  the  chimney-piece. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  jump  from  my  chair,  throw  aside  my 
book,  and  hastily  advance  to  him.  He  did  not  stir,  and  his 
eyes,  as  they  looked  at  another  object,  appeared  dull  and 


224  TRESSILIAN. 

glassy.     I  had  scarcely  taken  a  second  step  forward,  wLen  I 
noticed  that  I  could  see  into  the  mirror,  through  my  father, 
and  that  he  cast  no  image  or  reflection  on  the  glass.     The 
thought  that  there  was  something  strange  in  this  rushed  into 
rav  mind.     My  advancing  steps  were  suddenly  arrested  by 
this  thought,   and   a  horror  struck   through   my  frame.     I 
remembered  nothing  more,  except  that,  late  in  the  day,  I 
found  myself  in  bed,  and  was  told  by  one  of  my  cousins  that 
I  had  been  found  senseless  on  the  floor,  and  that  I  had  been 
bled  by  the  medical  gentleman  who  had  been  called  in  to  see 
me.     I  could  not  resist  the  impulse,  even  at  the  risk  of  being 
laughed  at,  of  whispering  to  my  cousin  the  cause  of  my 
sudden  illness.     As  might  be  expected,  she  laughed  at  it,  and 
said  she  hoped  I  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  dream  of  such 
things.     But  on  the  third  day  after,  a  letter  from  home  told 
me  that  my  father  had  died,  at  the  precise  time  when  I  saw 
what  I  believed  to  be  his  actual  presence.     lie  had  been 
visited  by  a  sudden  ailment,  which  rapidly  terminated  in  his 
death.      Whij  this  should  have  occurred — for  it  did  occur,  as 
certainly  as  I  am  now  telling  it  to  you — I  am  unable  to 
explain.     I  only  relate  a  simple  fact,  which  neither  time, 
change,  nor  circumstances  can  obliterate  from  my  memory." 

After  a  silence  of  some  duration — for  there  was  subject 
for  meditation  in  what  I  had  heard — I  ventured  to  ask  on 
what  otlier  occasions  he  had  experienced  the  faculty  ? 

"  The  second,  and  only  other  instance,  occurred,"  said  he, 
"lono- after,  when  I  was  in  my  twenty-third  year.  I  cannot 
account  for  the  impulse  which  prompts  me  to  converse,  thus 
freely,  with  a  stranger,  on  a  subject  of  this  kind,  but  I  feel  that, 
even  if  you  do  not  believe,  you  will  not  ridicule  what  I  tell  you, 
and  the  overloaded  mind  is  sometimes  glad  to  have  an  auditor 
respecting  the  superstition — if  such  it  be — to  whom,  even  if 


THE     SECOND      SIGHT.  225 

he  do  not  share  its  peculiar  shades  of  speculation,  it  may 
unburthen  itself  without  reserve. 

"  When  I  had  reached  my  seventeenth  year — that  ago 
when  the  Girl  has  softly  glided  into  the  Woman,  and  the 
Youth  can  scarcely  be  said  to  do  more  than  stand  on  the 
threshold  of  Manhood,  though  he  yearns,  and  sinlessly, 
for  the  soft  companionship  which  soothes,  and  softens,  and 
refines  his  nature — it  was  my  fortune  to  be  thrown  a  good 
deal  into  the  society  of  a  very  charming  girl  of  ray  own  age, 
a  distant  relative.  I  need  not  fatigue  you  with  a  description 
of  the  young  lady.  Beautiful  she  certainly  was  —at  least,  so 
/  thought,  and  think — but  the  peculiar  character  of  that 
loveliness  I  feel  that  words  could  never  correctly  make  known 
to  you.  Indeed,  the  mere  attractions  of  form  and  featui-e 
would  not  by  themselves  have  charmed  me  at  any  time.  I 
found  that  she  had  a  clear,  thoughtful,  well-informed  intellect, 
and  I  have  ever  believed  it  is  the  mind  that  makes  the  body 
beautiful.  In  the  strange  old  country-house  which  was  her 
dwelling-place,  and  with  no  other  being  of  either  sex,  of  an 
age  at  all  near  my  own,  it  is  scarcely  wonderful — to  say 
nothing  of  the  young  lady's  own  attractions — that  I  very 
speedily  became  enamoured  of  her.  Nor  was  it  a  trifling 
consolation  to  know  that  the  fancy  or  the  passion  (for  it  was 
as  nmch  of  sentiment  as  sense)  was  as  reciprocal  as  heart 
could  desire.  Well  do  I  remember,  even  as  it  were  yesterday, 
when  I  first  dare  say  in  words,  what  my  eyes  had  told  long 
before,  how  dearly  I  loved  her.  And  her  reply — it  was 
ffiven ;  not  in  uttered  lano-uao-e,  but  in  the  low  and  relieving 
sigh  which  speaks,  even  in  its  silence.  The  blush  upon  her 
cheeks — the  heaving  of  her  bosom — the  sudden  tears  spring- 
ino-  into  her  dark  blue  eyes  (like  the  dew  trembling  on  the 
violets),  gave  me  the  glad  assurance  that  I  did  not  sue  in 

10* 


226  TRESSILIAN. 

vain.  Even  yet,  tlioiigh  years  have  passed  away,  the  memory 
of  that  first  hour  of  mutually-confessed  affection  is  graven  in 
my  heart.  It  is  some  consolation,  that  when  Hope  departs, 
Memory  remains  to  solace  us,  however  sadly. 

"  It  would  be  a  bad  reward  for  the  patience  with  which, 
my  dear  sir,  you  have  listened  to  all  this  egotism,  to  try  it 
further  by  intlicting  upon  you  an  account  of  all  the  tender- 
ness of  protestation  and  promise  which  followed  the  mutual 
confession  I  spoke  of  The  truth  is,  we  were  thrown  much 
together,  when  we  had  nothing  to  do  but  fall  in  love  with 
each  other,  at  the  most  susceptible  period  of  the  three-score 
and  ten  years  allotted  to  human  life,  and  we  certainly  fulfilled 
our  destiny.  Vows  of  eternal  constancy  we  exchanged,  of 
course,  and  wisely  agreed  that,  at  a  fit  and  future  period  we 
should  be  espoused.  And  so — we  parted.  My  lot  was  speedily 
cast  in  the  midst  of  the  business  and  bustle  of  the  worl-d,  in 
which  I  had  to  win  subsistence  and  reputation  ;  and  hers 
was  destined  to  glide  on  in  quiet,  first  in  the  home  which  is 
so  haunted  with  recollections  of  the  past,  that  it  would  be  a 
positive  pain  for  me  now  to  revisit  it,  and  finally  in  a  seques- 
tered village  in  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  South  of  France. 
Our  correspondence  gradually  became  less  frequent  than  it 
had  been  at  first ;  and  I  must  admit,  on  my  own  part,  that  at 
last,  when  I  had  formed  new  ties,  it  wholly  ceased. 

"  I  remember  how — for  our  conversation  was  often  on  sub- 
jects beyond  our  years — we  had  often  spoken  together  of  that 
world  beyond  the  grave,  of  which  so  little  is  known,  so  much 
vainly  guessed.  'I  believe,'  said  she,  who  was  fond  of  such 
speculations,  '  that  disembodied  spirits  may  hover  round  those 
whom  they  loved  on  earth,  and,'  she  added,  with  more  solem- 
nity than  I  fancied  the  occasion  warranted,  '  if  it  should  be  so, 
be  assured  that  I  shall  first  use  my  pi-ivilege  to  watch  over 
you,  and — if  it  be  permitted — even  to  be  visitant  visible  to 


THE      SECOND      SIGHT.  227 

you.'  I  smiled  at  the  promise  thus  made,  half  in  sport.  I 
knew  not  then,  how  Truth  may  lurk  amid  the  smiles  of 
mirth. 

"  Many  years  passed  on.  The  sanguine  youth  had  gradually 
changed  into  the  man  of  the  world,  struggling  for  fortune, 
and  striving  in  the  struggle  to  gain  that  Fame  which,  when 
gained,  is  unsubstantial  as  the  gorgeous  domes,  and  towers, 
and  mountains,  and  islands,  to  which  Fancy  finds  resemblances 
in  the  sky  on  the  eve  of  a  bright  autumnal  day.  I  had  taken 
imto  myself  a  wife.  I  had  '  olive  branches  round  about  my 
table.'  Mine  was  an  active  and  leading  part  in  the  strife  of 
politics,  and  the  business  of  life.  I  had  gradually  become  one 
of  the  last  persons  whom  any  one  would  think  likely  to  be 
moved,  even  for  a  moment,  by  a  superstitious  fancy.  I  was 
known  as  a  plain,  matter-of-fact  gentleman,  troubled  with  few 
day-dreams,  and  holding  a  decided  belief  in  the  Actual. 

"  One  night,  absent  from  home  on  a  visit  to  a  friend,  I 
retired  to  bed  early,  as  was  the  custom  in  his  well-regulated 
house,  and  lay  in  that  pleasant,  quiet  state,  which  may  be 
taken  as  the  medium  between  thought  and  repose.  Contem- 
plation, which  had  been  busy,  was  momentarily  fading,  but 
Sleep  had  not  yet  put  his  seal  upon  the  phantasies.  As 
the  clock  commenced  striking  the  midnight  hour,  I  heard,  or 
thought  I  heard,  the  door  of  my  chamber  slowly  opened,  and 
footsteps — they  seemed  a  woman's  by  their  light  tread — • 
pace  stealthily  along.  They  came  near — yet  nearer.  They 
reached  the  side  of  my  bed,  and  paused.  Then  a  dim  light 
appeared  through  the  curtains,  as  if  some  one  were  cautiously 
holding  a  lamp,  half  veiling  its  light,  so  as  to  allow  a  glance 
at  my  features  without  dazzling  me.  The  curtains  slowly 
opened,  and — and,  by  heaven  !  for  it  was  not  a  dream,  I  saw 
a  woman's  face,  pale,  melancholy,  yet  indistinct,  gazing  upon 
mine  with  intent  and-  mournful  aspect.     Of  the  lineaments  of 


228  ..  TRESSILIAN. 

that  face,  wliich  yet  appeared  not  wholly  unknown  to  me — 
haunting  me  like  the  memory  of  something  long  since  seen — 
I  could  gather  little  precisely  in  the  brief  and  fleeting  glance 
I  had  of  them  ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  they  were  indistinct.  But 
the  eyes — so  lustrous,  and  yet  so  mournful  in  their  bright- 
ness and  expression — these  I  could  distinctly  see :  these 
awakened  memory  within  me,  though  I  knew  not  what,  or 
whence,  or  how,  was  my  knowledge  of  them. 

"  I  started  from  my  stillness.  I  spoke,  to  satisfy  myself 
that  I  was  not  in  sleep.  I  looked  around,  to  see  whether  the 
light  which  had  glanced  upon  me,  might  not  be  that  of  the 
moon  peering  in  through  the  casement ;  but  it  was  a  dark, 
starless  night.  I  turned  to  the  vision — if  such  it  were ;  but 
as  I  was  about  addressing  it,  I  saw  it  slowly  vanish.  I  arose 
and  followed  it — in  vain  !  As  it  retired,  the  light  by  which 
it  was  mantled  grew  less  and  less  ;  but  the  unearthly  lustre 
of  those  sorrowful  eyes  remained  the  latest  in  my  view.  Just 
as  all  had  faded  away,  the  clock  pealed  out  its  last  stroke  of 
midnight,  and  that  clear  sound  fell  on  my  ear  like  the  knell 
for  a  departed  soul.  A  shriek,  too,  more  piercingly  shrill,  and 
wildly  horrible  than  any  sound  I  had  ever  heard  before, 
accompanied  the  exit  of  the  shadowy  visitant.  All,  from  first 
to  last,  which  I  had  seen  and  have  described,  had  happened 
between  the  first  and  the  last  stroke  of  the  midnight  hour. 
An  age  of  agony  was  concentrated  into  the  compass  of  those 
few  moments. 

"  When  the  morning  came,  breaking  the  troubled  slumbers 
of  the  night,  I  found  my  door  fastened  within,  precisely  as  I 
had  secured  it  when  I  had  retired  to  rest.  The  circumstance 
ap])eared  so  startling,  when  I  calmly  considered  it,  that  I 
made  a  memorandum,  at  once,  while  each  particular  was 
vividly  fresh  in  my  mind,  of  what  I  had  seen  or  imagined. 
Why  should  I  longer  delay  the  result  ?     Within  ten  days,  I 


THE      SECOND    SIGHT.  229 

received  a  letter,  informing  me  that  she,  wlio  had  long  been 
separated  from  my  very  thoughts,  had  died  in  the  foreign  land 
where  she  had  passed  so  many  years.  The  startling  coinci- 
dence was  that  the  breath  of  life  had  departed  from  her  on 
the  very  day,  and  at  the  very  hour,  when  those  dark,  un- 
fathomable eyes  met  mine,  as  I  have  told  you.  She  died 
suddenly,  and  by  no  lingering  illness. — I  have  no  more  to 
tell." 

To  wonder  at  this  strange  relation,  and  to  repeat,  with  Ham- 
let, that  there  were  more  things  in  earth  and  heaven  than 
our  philosophy  had  dreamed  of,  was  only  natural.  I  ventured 
to  enquire,  what  the  narrator  really  thought  of  the  visit  from 
the  world  of  spirits;  for  it  was  clear  that  such  he  had  con- 
ceived it  to  be :  and  the  answer  was,  "  I  doubt  not  that  it 
was  her  departing  spirit,  which,  as  it  hovered  between  dust 
and  immortality,  thus  gave  its  latest  token  of  remembrance 
to  him  whom  it  had  loved  in  life,  and  until  death — testifying, 
by  that  last  farewell,  the  truth  of  that  affection  which  the 
grave  alone  could  terminate." 


230  .     THE  S  S  I  LI  AN. 

Various  were  the  comments  made  upon  this  relation,  some 
of  us,  more  or  less  confessing  a  sort  of  belief  in  the  superna- 
tural ;  some  entirely  disavowing  all  credence  in  such  things. 

Tressilian  said,  that  disbelief  appeared  as  diflBcult  as  belief, 
so  many  well-authenticated  instances  were  upon  record.  He 
thought  that  the  majority  of  them  might  be  traced  to  a  dis- 
ordered state  of  the  mind  or  body.  "  As  dreams,"  continued 
he,  "  are  little  more  than  representations  of  our  waking 
thoughts,  seen  in  sleep  through  the  kaleidoscope  of  Fancy ; 
so  what  are  often  taken  for  supernatural  appearances,  may  be 
no  more  than  the  reflection  of  our  hopes  or  fears,  magnified 
by  Imagination  into  something  like  the  vivid  truth  of  reality." 

"  Some  time  ago,"  said  Butler,  "  when  I  was  in  Germany, 
I  met  with  the  hero  of  a  romance,  which  was  curiously  coin- 
cident in  the  leading  particulars  with  one  of  the  incidents  in 
the  Scottish  story  which  we  have  just  heard.  The  man  to 
whom  I  allude  was  quiet,  gentlemanly,  and  apparently  sane, 
until,  by  accident,  some  one,  in  a  large  company,  happened  to 
speak  slightingly  of  all  ghost-stories ;  when,  to  our  surprise,  this 
person  started  up,  and  violently  contended  that  he  must  be- 
lieve in  supernatural  occurrences,  as  he  had  bitter  and  per- 
sonal reasons  for  knowing  their  truth.  He  was  removed  by 
an  attendant,  whom  we  discovered  to  be  his  keeper ;  and  I 
afterwards  saw  him  frequently  in  a  maison  de  sante,  at  Vien- 
na. Under  proper  care  and  gentle  discipline,  he  was  very 
calm  and  conversable.  He  had  been  a  student  for  many 
years,  at  Bonn  ;  and  when  I  went  to  bid  him  '  Good  bye,'  he 
put  into  my  hand  a  manuscript,  which  I  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  translate,  and  will  now  read,  if  you  will  allow  me. 

"  I  ascertained  that  he  was  a  man  of  high  birth,  large  for- 
tune, and  superior  education.  An  early  disappointment  of 
the  heart  had  induced  a  deep  and  settled  melancholy,  which, 
acting  upon  a  vivid  imagination,  and  excitable  temperament, 


THE     GERMAN     STUDENT.  231 

had  eventually  thrown  his  mind  off  its  balance.  From  the 
manner  in  which  he  spoke,  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  firmly  be- 
lieved in  all  the  circumstances  which  he  has  related  in  what 
I  shall  read  to  you.  As  to  his  authorship,  I  need  only  say, 
that  two  or  three  works  which  he  published  while  at  Heidel- 
berg, fell  into  my  hands ;  though  they  were  clever  and  fanci- 
ful, they  by  no  means  equalled  his  conversation.  The  works 
had  attracted  little  attention  from  the  public." 

Lady  Tressilian  enquired  what  was  the  age  of  this  German 
student  ?  Mr.  Butler  answeerd,  that,  when  he  saw  him,  he 
appeared  about  thirty,  and  that  his  illness  had  commenced, 
as  he  understood,  some  twelve  years  before.  He  had  not  lat- 
terly heard  of  him,  but  believed  that  he  was  occasionally 
freed  from  confinement,  as,  curiously  enough,  his  mind  was 
never  affected  except  during  the  seasons  of  spring  and 
winter. 

In  a  few  minutes  Butler  returned  from  his  room  with  the 
manuscript,  which,  he  said,  was  a  translation,  as  nearly  literal 
as  he  could  make  it,  of — 


282  TRESSILIAN. 


THE  GERMAN  STUDENT'S  STORY. 

Do  I  dream,  or  am  I  again  holding  converse  with  the  world 
of  men,  from  whose  haunts  I  have  been  so  long  estranged — 
with  whose  impulses,  for  years,  I  have  had  nought  in  com- 
mon ?  I  have  long  been  shut  out  from  communion  with  my 
kind,  and  now,  like  the  plant  reared  in  darkness,  which  lan- 
guishes for  light  to  give  it  health  and  vitality,  turning  to 
the  slenderest  gleam — my  spirit  pines  for  the  companionship 
of  man,  and  would  feign  win  the  benison  of  his  sympathy. 

I  tread  once  more,  amid  the  haunts  of  men.  Once  more  I 
bathe  my  brow  in  the  free  gushing  of  the  blessed  air  of  hea- 
ven. Once  more,  I  look  upon  the  earth,  daedal  though  it  be, 
and  worship  the  might,  the  majesty,  the  magnificence  of 
Nature.  For  this  I  aspired  through  the  weary  days  and 
more  weary  nights,  which  passed  over  me — heavily  as  though 
they  would  never  pass — in  my  dreary  dungeon-thrall.  For 
this  I  languished — with  faded  cheek  and  fevered  brow,  with 
withered  heart  and  baffled  hopes, — until  it  was  scarcely  a 
marvel  if  I  deemed  that  my  veiy  nature  was  changed. 
Thus  rose  my  fervent  aspirations,  through  the  darkness  of 
what  I  feared  would  be  an  endless,  as  I  felt  it  to  be  an  oppres- 
sive prisonment — for  there  dawned  no  ray  of  promise  within 
me,  nor  around  me,  to  lighten  the  gloom  which  clouded  my 
mind  in  my  noon  of  life. 

I  had  nerved  my  spirit  to  endure  perpetual  enthralment. 
T  had  striven  to  forget  the  living  glory  and  the  breathing 


THE      GERMAN     STUDENT's      STORT.  233 

beautv  of  the  world  from  which  I  was  shut  out — and  now. 


whatever  I  desired  for  comes,  all  unsought,  to  my  enjoyment. 
Wealth — great  among  the  magnates  of  the  land ;  vigorous 
manhood,  to  plunge,  if  I  would,  into  power,  pleasure,  and  pos- 
session ; — all  that  can  administer  to  luxury,  that  can  feed 
ambition,  that  can  throw  a  loveliness  of  aspect  over  even  the 
laidly  features  of  vice,  or  strew  spring-flowers  upon  the  path 
of  virtue — an  enfranchised  and  instructed  mind,  to  tower 
among  and  above  my  fellow-men  ; — knowledge,  whether  won 
in  early  years  from  books,  those  undeceiving  friends,  or 
gleaned  from  the  action  and  passion  of  experience,  or  gained 
through  long  years  of  captivity  and  endurance,  when  thought 
and  memory  alone  were  left  to  a  disturbed  and  distracted 
mind  to  link  me  with  the  past,  and  console  me  for  the  pre- 
sent, and  supply  me  with  hope  for  the  future.  These,  varied 
in  their  aspects,  multiform  in  their  powers,  unconquerable  in 
their  union — these  now  are  mine.  Yet  now,  when  they  have 
come,  I  sadly  feel  that  they  are  not  what  I  sought.  They 
cannot  fling  freshness  into  this  wretched  heart — they  cannot 
erase  the  memories  inscribed  by  sorrow  on  the  red-leaved 
tablets  of  my  heart — they  cannot  bring  back  the  face  and 
form  of  beauty  which  won  my  love  in  happier  hours — they 
can  bring  me  neither  happiness  nor  forgetfulness  ;  and  I  smile, 
in  bitterness,  as  I  think  how  idly  my  spirit  could  once  imagine 
that  such  as  these  would  be  all-sufficient  for  the  heart. 

Through  unnoted  time — through  wearying  monotony  of 
prisoned  hours,  I  have  had  no  heart  to  throb  with  the  passion- 
tide  of  love  to  my  wildly-beating  heart,  which  hath  panted 
for  that  sweet  companionship.  The  low,  soft  voices  which  I 
loved  to  listen  to  in  the  solemn  silence  of  the  stilly  night — 
the  atrial  forms  of  beauty  which  floated  around  my  couch, 
while  my  mind  was  far  away  in  Dreamland — all  are  vanished, 
and,  long  ago,  my  loftiest  auguries  of  imagination  have  fallen 


234  TRESSILIAN. 

to  the  dust,  like  the  priceless  vase  which  drops  from  the 
hands  of  a  careless  child,  shattered  beyond  all  power  of  resto- 
ration. 

If  I  can  no  more  hold  converse  with  Her — the  fairest  and 
the  best,  whose  name,  amid  the  dreary  waste  of  mournful 
years,  I  have  uttered  but  to  the  voiceful  zephyr  which  glided 
by  me,  fraught,  I  have  vainly  fancied,  with  some  remembered 
tone  of  hers — nor  with  those,  the  faithful  and  the  fond,  the 
friends  who  were  mine  on  earth,  as  they  yet  may  be  in  the 
starry  glory-beds  of  heaven — nor  with  those,  the  deceiving 
and  the  heartless,  who  flitted  around  me  in  the  prosperous  hour, 
and  fled  when  the  wintry  blast  was  heard  ;  if  with  none  of 
these  can  I  hold  converse,  yet  I  may  calm  the  disquietings  of 
a  stricken  spirit,  by  tracing  on  these  pages  this  record  of 
wounded  feelings  and  wasted  hopes. 

The  mother  who  bore  me  could  not  recognise  her  son  in 
the  changed  being  who  sits  here  to  pour  out  one  memory  of 
his  heart : — my  very  lineaments  are  changed  : — premature 
troubles  have  ploughed  furrows  on  my  bi'ow,  and  my  heart — 
but  let  that  pass,  I  must  back  to  my  humanity,  for  I  mingle 
once  more  with  men. 

I  am  the  youngest  of  many  children,  and — for  surely  I  may 
say  it  now,  when  for  me  Fame  has  lost  its  spur — was  first 
among  them  in  the  gifts  of  understanding.  The  glorious 
writers  of  the  antique  times,  who  poui-ed  forth  melody,  wisdom, 
and  joy  (for  it  is  wise  to  be  happy)  in  a  full  gush  from  the 
exhaustless  fountains  of  their  own  hearts — these  were  familiar 
to  me,  almost  from  the  time  when  Reason  first  bathed  my 
inquiring  soul  in  the  rich  dews  of  its  eternal  power.  "With 
little  effort  did  my  mind  acquire,  and  my  memory  retain,  the 
treasures  of  knowledge  and  imagination  which  these  chron- 
iclers of  other  times  and  olden  inspiration  so  lavishly  have 
scattered  over  their  venerable  and  venerated  pages.     Pleasant 


THE      GERMAN      STUDENT'S      STORY.  235 

•was  it  for  my  soul  to  bask  in  the  glorious  sunshine  of  ilielrs^ 
for  my  younger  and  tenderer  thoughts  to  borrow  strength  and 
vigour  from  their  calm  and  matured  serenity. 

Nor  were  the  mind-magicians  of  latter  times  unknown  to 
me,  or  unprized  in  their  worth.  As  my  knowledge  of  them 
increased,  so  increased  my  thirst  for  knowledge.  Thus  those 
through  whom  the  Past  yet  lived,  and  those  from  whom  the 
Present  might  hope  for  memorials  as  permanent  and  bright 
were  the  chosen  companions  even  of  my  hours  of  holiday,  nor 
knew  I  ever  playmates  so  untiring,  and  ever  friendly,  as  these, 
my  books. 

Boyhood  passed  away,  and  I  sprung  into  the  flush  of 
Manhood.  A  proud  heart  was  mine,  which  brooked  not  the 
eflforts  of  the  haughty  to  look  me  down.  To  such — a  stern 
glance — a  cold,  contemptuous  eye  was  my  sole  and  suflicient 
answer. 

Yet,  though  I  sought  not  the  fellowship  of  man,  it  pursued 
me — like  a  thought  in  the  sunny  day,  or  a  dream  in  the  starry 
night — even  in  the  recesses  of  retirement.  And,  though  I 
strove  to  shun  it,  still  it  followed  me,  until  I  was  subdued  by 
the  admiration,  which,  despite  my  coldness,  still  sued  for  my 
resfard.  So  I  sometimes  mino-led  in  the  crowds,  a  welcomed 
guest,  and  it  was  said,  that  even  to  Mirth  herself  I  had  lent  riches 
and  smiles,  which  brightened  where  they  fell,  and  that  I  had 
bound  the  temples  of  that  joy-voiced  nymph  with  flowery 
wreaths  snatched  from  the  generous  lap  of  bright-eyed 
Pleasure. 

Thus  I  shone  as  a  star  among  them,  the  distinguished  of 
the  circle.  Many  a  tongue  grew  eloquent  in  praise  of  the 
young  and  half-haughty  student,  whose  smile,  even  ?&  a  guer- 
don, was  treasured  up  by  sensitive  hearts,  through  hours  of 
thoughtful  solitude.  Many  a  cheek  alternated,  at  my  approach, 
from  pale  to   damask.      Many  a  dark  eye,  passion-lighted, 


236  TRESSILIAN. 

flashed  forth  its  heretofore  latent  fires,  with  eloquent  expres- 
sion, as  it  met  my  gaze.  Many  a  maiden  trembled  with  sudden, 
and  notundelighted  emotion,  as  the  touch  of  my  fingers  came 
thrillingly  upon  her  delicate  hand,  in  the  wildering  move- 
ments and  mazes  of  the  passion-nursing  dance.  Many  a  heart 
longed  for  my  appearance,  and  then — through  an  infinite 
excess  of  deep  feeling — shrunk  back  when  it  felt  the  consci- 
ousness of  my  presence.  And  when  I  presented  a  rose,  aye, 
or  even  the  humblest  meadow  flower  to  any  of  that  galaxy  of 
loveliness,  how  often  was  it  secretly  worn  and  fondly  cherished 
next  her  throbbing  heart — even  after  its  beauty  had  departed, 
and  its  odor  fled — as  a  memorial,  slight  but  tender,  of  him 
whose  touch  had  sanctified  even  its  worthlessness,  and  whose 
gentle  thoughts  might  have  gone,  if  but  for  a  fleeting  moment, 
with  the  trivial  gift. 

It  may  well  be  conceived  that  a  nature  like  mine  could  not 
be  insensible  to  the  feelings  I  thus  excited  ;  but,  flatteringly 
as  this  consciousness  came  upon  my  soul,  I  then  but  slightly 
heeded  the  incense  it  wafted  there.  I  felt  something 
within  me  whispering  that  I  was  born  for  more  than  the  ad- 
miration of  the  few.  The  aspirings  of  ambition  fed  my  spirit 
with  auguries  of  hope  ;  and  though  I  grieved  to  part  from  the 
kind  hearts  which  had  made  themselves  the  intimates  of  my 
heart,  yet  I  nerved  myself  to  part  with  them ;  and,  with  a 
compelling  desire  to  win  fame,  I  left  the  scenes  of  my  youth, 
of  my  triumph  ;  and  there  went  with  and  after  me,  prayers 
for  success  from  the  aged,  and  fond  anticipations  of  my 
reuown  from  the  young. 

So  I  went  into  the  busy  world  of  men,  yet  did  not 
leave  the  world  of  my  own  hoarded  contemplations.  I 
mingled  with  the  many.  I  visited  various  scenes,  and 
closely  observed  all  things.  I  grew  familiar  with  that 
riddle — the     human    heart.     I    learned     the     arcana     of 


THE      GERMAN      STUDENT'S      STORY.  237 

philosophy  and  art.  I  read  the  ever-open  page  of  Nature, 
for  my  study  had  hitherto  chiefly  been  among-  books — and 
then  I  surrounded  myself,  in  the  silent  night,  with  the  records 
of  heroic  History,  and  trod  the  starry  paths  of  immortal  Po- 
etry— until,  at  length,  I  knew  by  the  struggles  of  my  heart, 
that  for  me,  also,  the  hour  had  come.  And  then  I  called  up, 
as  with  a  magician's  power,  the  spells  of  imagination  and  the 
talismans  of  knowledge,  until,  blending  them  together,  I 
poured  out,  on  the  mute  page,  in  the  melody  of  poetry,  the 
gush  of  burning  thoughts,  which,  from  my  youth  upwards^ 
had  been  mustering  in  my  mind,  vague,  aimless,  and  erratic. 
And,  as  I  wrote,  the  full  tide  of  passion,  and  of  pathos,  rushed 
in  power  from  my  pen. 

I  sent  my  pages  into  the  busy  world,  and  a  few  felt,  and 
the  many  said  they  felt,  the  witchery  of  my  strain.  I  became 
a  marvel  among  men.  Poets,  as  they  saw  what  riches  I  was 
scattering  with  a  lavish  hand,  confessed  that  I  had  won,  at  one 
bound,  what  they  had  spent  weary  lives  in  quest  of.  Philoso- 
phers mused,  in  rapt  wonder,  over  the  pages  whereon  the 
stern  intensity  of  truth  was  mingled  with  the  airy  fictions  of 
fancy.  The  Scholar — as,  with  throbbing  brow,  and  silently 
sickening  heart,  he  studied  by  his  midnight  lamp,  or  upon 
some  sunny  bank,  beside  a  gurgling  stream  in  his  own  native 
land,  whither  he  had  come  to  die — forsook  the  lore  of  anti- 
quity, to  ponder,  with  an  elevated  spirit,  on  what  I  had  pro- 
duced, and  still  glowed  with  admiration,  while,  with  impa- 
tient delight,  he  hurried  over  my  page.  Beauty — as  she  sat 
in  the  leafy  solitude  of  her  rose-wreathed  bower,  waiting  (how 
anxiously!)  for  one  who  was  all  the  world  to  her — felt  a 
fever-flush  mantle  her  cheek,  and  strange  spirit-strivings  throng 
through  her  heart,  as  she  sighed  or  joyed  over  my  strains. 
The  widowed  matron — as,  with  half-understood  emotion,  her 
children  read  my  writings  to  her — wept,  not  in  sorrow,  over 


238  TRESSILIAN. 

Ihe  awakened  remembrances  of  lier  youthful  love,  which,  from 
the  cells  wherein  they  long  had  slept,  my  burning  verse  evoked. 
The  stern  Patriot,  who  had  almost  thrown  aside  the  hope  of 
rendering  the  land  of  his  birth  the  land  also  of  his  pride,  felt, 
from  my  strains,  that  despair  was  a  crime.  The  Painter  was 
not  ashamed  to  own  that  from  my  revealings  he  took  his 
most  beautiful  picturings  of  heroism,  love,  and  sorrow.  The 
Melodist,  whom  they  besought  to  wed  my  verse  to  music,  said 
that  it  would  be  a  useless  appendage  to  my  songs,  which  had  in. 
themselves  more  tuneful  symphonies  than  his  art  could  frame. 
The  Lover,  whom  deep  passion  had  rendered  incapable  of  re- 
lying upon  the  strength  of  his  own  oratory,  used  the  persua- 
siveness of  my  poetry  to  win  from  blushing  Beauty  all  that  she 
had  denied  before.  Envy  was  silent  for  once;  for,  if  she  did 
not  echo  the  praise  which  fell  from  the  multitudinous  lips  of 
Admiration,  at  least  she  did  not  deny  that  it  was  deserved. 

Thus,  all  places  were  full  of,  all  persons  familiar  with,  my 
songs.  Many  a  wounded  heart  blessed  him,  whose  verse  had 
beguiled  it  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  The 
aged  and  the  young,  the  enthusiast  and  the  cold,  the  proud 
and  the  lowly,  united  in  lauding  him,  who,  they  said,  had  laid 
open  the  heart  of  man  in  its  affections,  passions,  griefs,  and 
joys ;  who  had  shown  what  undreamed  of  treasures  lay  in  its 
secret  places;  who,  they  declared,  had  drawn  spells  from 
truth,  fancy,  and  wisdom,  and,  binding  them  in  the  silken 
toils  of  melodious  song,  had  won  favours  from  the  genii  of 
the  mind,  which  many,  through  the  long  eternity  of  by-gone 
time,  had  eagerly  sought ;  which  few  have  found.  Thus  did 
I  reap  the  richest  honour  that  a  poet  can  desire ;  the  boon  of 
Fame. 

Soon  I  found  that  fame,  to  be  perfect,  must  be  shared. 
Even  amid  the  concourse  and  festivals  of  the  magnates  of  the 
land,  1  sighed  for  some  congenial  spirit  to  cheer  my  solitude 


fi 


THE      GERMAN     STUDENt's     8T0RY.  239 

at  tome — to  guide  me  to  other  and  loftier  achievements  of 
renown — to  send  me  to  adventure  on  some  hitherto  unpathed 
ocean  of  thought ;  and  this  longing,  alike  nursed  in  crowds 
and  loneliness,  did  not  long  remain  unsatisfied. 

One  day,  T  had  wandered  from  the  din  of  the  crowded  city, 
to  win  from  the  balmy  quietude  and  gentle  breath  of  the 
country,  some  cooling  for  the  -fever  of  my  cheek  and  brow; 
for  the  continued  exercise  of  thought,  and  the  birth  of  poetry 
are  painful  and  exacting.  I  rested  on  a  shady  bank,  wearied, 
by  my  lengthened  walk,  for  the  city  had  unnerved  ray  endur- 
ance of  fatigue,  and  my  step  was  less  springy  in  the  noon- 
tide than  it  had  wont  to  be  in  the  morning  of  my  youth.  A 
clear  rivulet  ran,  rippling,  at  my  feet — its  sound  was  music  to 
my  ear.  Around  me  was  the  magnificence  of  nature.  In 
the  clear  sky,  far  above,  the  chorists  of  the  grove  warbled 
their  thrilling  songs.  The  evening  shades  came  on.  The  sun 
sank,  like  a  conqueror,  far  away  beyond  the  western  horizon, 
and,  gradually,  the  minstrel-birds  ceased  their  song.  Musing 
on  the  feme  which  I  had  won,  I  was  thinking  how  to  exceed 
what  I  had  already  done,  by  throwng  the  concentrated  power 
of  my  increased  and  still-increasing  knowledge,  and  the  whole 
sensibilities  of  my  heart,  into  expression  and  language.  But 
the  chain  of  my  reveries,  and  the  sleep-like  silence  of  that 
lovely  evening,  were  softly  broken  by  the  silvery  sweetness 
of  a  woman's  voice.  I  started  at  the  sound ;  for  there  is  that 
in  the  melody  of  such  accents,  which  falls  on  the  heart  re- 
freshingly as  the  shower  on  the  sultry  summer,  or  as  a  fall  of 
water  upon  the  ear  of  a  solitary,  or  as  the  distant,  dying  echo 
of  sweet-souled  music,  heard  afar  off,  amid  the  rocks 
and  trees. 

My  heart  beat  with  a  soft  tumult  of  joy  as  I  heard  that 
sweet  voice  warble  one  of  my  songs — lending  a  rich  and  pow- 
erful expression  to  the  passion  of  the  strain.      She  who  sang 


240  TRESSILIAN. 

came  towards  where,  unseen,  I  lay.  Then,  thoiigli  she  saw 
me  not,  the  glory  of  that  unrivalled  beauty  met  my  gaze.  I 
heard  her  words,  as,  with  maiden  and  mutual  confidence,  she 
and  her  gentle  friend  conversed.  My  name  was  on  her  lips^ 
linked  with  the  expressed  desire  to  see  and  know  him  whose 
songs  had  filled  her  heart  with  deep  emotion.  They  passed 
on.  From  that  hour  a  new  feeling  filled  my  soul.  I  had  be- 
held the  all  of  loveliness  I  had  ever  fancied  as  what  female 
beauty  ought  to  be.  In  her  I  recognised  the  perfect  admix- 
ture of  every  element  of  form,  feature,  or  divine  thought — for 
the  mind  mav  be  read  in  the  features — which  I  had  siw^hed  to 
find  in  woman,  but  had  vainly  sighed  for,  until  then.  It  was 
that  visible  and  mental  beauty  which  I  had  described  in  song, 
the  breathing  Ideal,  which  my  fancy  had  prophetically 
imagined  and  pourtrayed,  now  become  the  Actual. 

I  soon  became  known  to  her,  through  a  service  happily 
rendered,  w^hich  preserved  her  life,  and  for  a  time,  endangered 
mine.  I  discovered  that  our  sires  had  been  friends  in  youth, 
and  thus,  orphan  as  she  was,  she  had  an  hereditary  claim  to 
ray  regard.  But  ei-e  she  knew  me  as  myself,  she  had  learned 
to  love  me  for  myself.  We  read,  and  conversed,  and  walked 
together.  Sweet  was  our  interchange  of  thought.  At  lasrt 
when  I  told  her  that  /  was  the  poet  whose  passionate  earnest- 
ness she  loved  so  well,  she  cast  her  noble  spirit,  with  a  trust- 
ing tenderness,  as  an  offering  upon  the  altar  of  my  heart.  - 

She  loved  me  with  that  fervent  and  delicate  sensibility 
which  Woman  alone  is  capable  of  feeling,  and  which  accom- 
panies only  her  first  love.  She  eagerly  enjoyed  the  ap- 
plauses which  were  showered  upon  me — for  Love  had  again 
awakened  all  the  Poet  in  my  heart.  They  told  her  that  safely 
she  had  ventured  the  treasure  of  affection  within  a  barque, 
where  Hope  was  at  the  helm,  bound  for  the  haven  of  hearted 
happiness. 


THE      GERMAN     STUDENT's     STORY.  241 

Yet  she  sometimes  doubted — for,  thoiigli  Love  be  strong 
as  death,  it  can  be  helpless  as  infancy.  She  doubted — not 
the  worthiness  of  the  beloved,  but  the  certainty  of  reciprocity 
Soon  was  this  doubt  dissolved.  One  summer's  eve,  I  sat  by 
her  side,  in  the  haunt  where  I  first  had  seen  her,  and  I  poured 
out,  with  the  full  utterance  of  love,  the  passion  which  dis- 
turbed my  soul.  Her  reply  was  given — not  with  spoken 
words,  but  in  her  low  and  happy  sigh.  Her  tear-gemmed 
eyes,  her  blushing  cheek,  her  throbbing  bosom,  gave  the  glad 
assurance  that  I  did  not  sue  in  vain. 

Once — and  once  only — did  a  cloud  seem  to  float  across  our 
confidings.  She  was  singing  to  me,  and  into  the  air,  which 
of  itself  was  mournful,  she  had  thrown  such  a  flood  of  pathos 
that  my  soul  was  earned  away  to  the  thoughts  of  other  years 
— for  Music  holds  the  silver  key  of  Memory.  The  strain 
ceased,  and,  as  I  still  remained  silent,  she  feared  that  she  had 
failed  to  delight  me.  Tears  filled  her  eyes,  as  she  gently 
looked  this  fear.  At  such  a  moment  I  could  not  utter  cold 
words  of  explanation.  Taking  the  instrument  from  her,  and 
striking  the  chords  in  soft  accomj^animent,  I  threw  into  rapid 
and  voluntary  song  the  feelings  which  overpowered  me.  The 
words  were  these  : — 

"  StiU,  stm,  Beloved  !  pour  along 
Tliy  wililering  passion-tide  of  song. 
For,  oh !  the  ear  which  once  hath  heard, 
Must  treasure  up  thine  every  word. 

"  And  if  no  imtant  burst  of  praise 
Reward  the  pathos  of  thy  lays, 
^        How  Bweet — how  exquisite  must  bo 
That  voiceless  eloquence  to  thee. 

"  For  Flattery's  honeyed  words  will  throng 
To  welcome  every  breath  of  Song ; 
The  tuneful  and  the  tuneless  strain 
Alike  hit  heartless  praise  can  gain  ; 

11 


242  TRESSILIAN. 

"  While  Admiration — ^heart  and  ear^ 
Anxious,  ■will  hold  her  breath  to  hear, 
Inliale  each  silvery  sound,  until. 
Even  when  'tis  past,  she  hears  thee  still  I" 

Poor  as  was  this  tribute,  she  received  it  with  joy,  for  it  came 
from  me,  and  she  said  that  it  had  merit  in  her  eyes,  because, 
unpolished  by  the  rules  of  poetic  art,  it  was  the  prompt 
and  faithful  expression  of  my  thoughts.  Thus  brief  was  the 
only  shadow  which  dimmed,  but  for  a  moment,  the  sunshine 
of  our  love. 

Why  do  I  dwell  on  the  memories  of  these  fleeting,  happy 
hours  ?  Even  now,  as  they  arise  before  me,  like  things  of 
yesterday,  my  temples  throb  with  the  strife  of  strong 
emotion.  I  had  thought  my  heart  was  tamed  down  to  its 
narration.     Let  me  hasten  to  conclude  it. 

We  were  betrothed.  A  day  not  distant — for  my  love  did 
not  brook  delay — was  named  for  our  espousal,  when  an  event 
took  place  which  sadly  changed  the  colour  of  my  fate. 

Light  in  heart,  I  had  sped  to  my  paternal  home — unvisited 
since  my  triumphs — to  devote  to  my  father  and  my  kindred 
the  few  remaining  days  of  my  celibacy.  The  hours  passed 
on — slowly,  as  I  thought ;  but  my  father  and  my  kindred 
lamented  the  rapidity  with  which  they  flew. 

Tlie  land  in  which  I  lived  was  in  a  tyrant's  thrall.  Men 
knew  not  friend  from  foe.  The  spy  was  every  where.  Oppres- 
sion ruled.  The  iron  yoke  of  tyranny  was  exalted.  All  who 
know  the  histoiy  of  man  must  know  that  such  things  cannot 
endure.  There  inevitably  comes  on  an  hour  in  which  this 
star  of  bitterness  must  be  redly  quenched.  It  n*eds  but  the 
linked  union  of  heart  to  heart  to  unpedestal  the  Dagon.  It 
may  be  that  a  word — but  one  word — will  prove  the  unpreme- 
ditated signal  for  revolt. 

The  dungeons  were  crowded  with  the  high-hearted,  feared 


THE      GERMAN      STUDENt's     8T0RT.  243 

or  suspected  by  the  tyrant.  But  be  could  not  cbain  the  free 
exercise  of  thought,  nor  curb  the  race  of  minded  indignation. 
There  only  was  needed  some  rallying  point  where  to  com- 
mence, some  leader  to  array  the  disaflected.  Both  came.  A 
satellite  of  that  haughty  Court  dared  to  violate  the  sacredness 
of  a  poor  man's  hut,  and  drag  thence  a  maiden — that  poor 
man's  sole  wealth,  his  only  child.  Seeing,  I  resisted  the  out- 
rage. My  arm  at  once  rescued  the  maiden,  and  levelled  the 
lustful  minion  to  the  dust.  An  universal  cry  arose  through- 
out the  land,  when  the  slaves  of  power  were  vainly  sent  for 
my  arrest.  The  torpor  of  thraldom  was  at  an  end.  Men 
arose,  as  from  a  trance,  to  buckle  on  the  brand.  Me  did  they 
choose  to  lead  them.  With  but  one  regret,  I  took  the  post 
of  honorable  danger ;  for  though  Love  be  happy.  Liberty  is 
holy — one,  without  the  sun-tints  of  the  other,  would  be  a 
gloom  indeed. 

Beneath  my  banner,  thronging  thousands  marshalled. 
Months  passed  on,  in  warfare  with  the  foe.  At  last,  strong 
in  the  justice  of  our  cause,  I  met  the  tyrant — sword  to  sword. 
The  hopes  of  a  nation  gave  strength  to  my  arm.  The 
oppressor  fell.     His  death  was  the  death  of  his  cause. 

The  Natiou  was  herself  once  more.  Equal  rights,  and 
laws,  and  liberties  were  proclaimed.  Then,  the  deliverer  was 
hailed  as  Lord.  I  pushed  aside  the  thorny  coronet  of  power, 
to  return  to  the  peaceful  life  I  had  quitted. 

When  the  excitement  of  success  was  over,  I  sank  beneath 
a  fever  of  mind  and  body.  If  aught  could  alleviate  the  pain 
of  sickness,  it  was  the  aflfectionate  devotion  of  my  disen- 
thralled countrymen ;  and,  through  their  kindness,  and  the 
skill  of  the  leech  whom,  at  a  great  price,  they  had  brought 
to  me,  from  afar,  I  gradually  recovered  health. 

One  night — I  have  dwelt  too  minutely,  it  may  be,  upon 
the  previous  narrative,  but  it  was  in   avoidance  of  this  part 


244  TRESSILIAN. 

of  my  story,  and  now  I  must  relate  it;  for  though  my  heart 
swells  with  emotion,  bleeding  afresh  as  the  memories  of 
departed  years  rise  up  before  it,  yet  it  must  nerve  itself  to 
the  endurance  of  recording  them;  for  there  is  an  impulse 
which  prompts  me  to  tell  my  story,  even  to  its  bitterest 
conclusion. 

More  than  once,  during  the  early  period  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, but  after  each  to  each  had  communicated  the  heart- 
secret  which,  when  thus  told,  changed  doubt  into  certainty, 
Clara  and  myself  had  indulged  in  speculations  as  to  that 
Future  which  lies  before  mankind,  a  great  unpathed  ocean. 
Vague,  solemn,  and  mysterious  were  our  fancies  upon  this 
subject.  Religion  pointed  out  that  Eternity  as  a  haven  iu 
which,  after  Life's  troubles,  we  should  repose  in  safety — but 
human  doubts  would  arise  as  to  the  manner  of  this  life-after- 
life into  which  we  then  should  pass.  For  my  own  part,  I 
loved  to  imagine  a  state  in  which  the  Mind  should  have 
eternal  and  ever-varying  enjoyment — in  which,  purified  from 
the  soil  of  earth,  Imagination  should  soar  into  higher  and 
clearer  heavens  than  it  had  pierced  in  its  pilgrimage  below — 
in  which  Faith,  sublimed  into  a  serener  hope,  should  prepare 
us  for  joys  in  which  mere  sense  would  have  slight  partici- 
pation— in  which  there  would  be,  but  with  a  subtler  and 
keener  faculty  of  feeling,  companionship  with  those  whom 
we  had  loved  and  lost  on  earth.  For  we  both  felt  that 
Heaven  itself  would  be  of  little  worth  without  the  hope  of 
that  companionship,  the  link  between  the  bodily  state  here 
and  the  spiritual  state  beyond.  And  ever,  as  we  thus 
thouo-ht  and  talked,  came  the  trust  that  among  the  Creator's 
'many  mansions'  in  the  world  to  come,  might  be  found  some 
place  in  which  the  fond  and  faithful  in  this  probationary  life 
miirht  be  admitted  to  abide. 

"  I  feel,"  said  Clara,  when  we  had  been  thus  earnestly  and 


THE      GERMAN     STUDENt's     STORT.  245 

fondly  indulging  in  such  thouglits,  "  tliat,  in  His  goodness, 
the  loved  on  earth  will  be  allowed  to  meet  in  heaven,  with  a 
memory  of  what  has  passed  below,  a  consciousness  of  as 
much  of  this  life  as  has  been  pure  and  virtuous.  So  strong 
is  my  conviction  of  this  (and  oh  !  is  it  not  sweet  to  think 
that  we  shall  meet  again  when  time  has  passed  ?)  that,  if  the 
power  be  mine,  when  it  please  the  Omnipotent  to  summon 
me  from  earth,  I  shall  be  with  you  in  the  spirit,  and  declare, 
if  then  I  can,  what  state  of  being  that  eternity  may  be. 
Promise  me,"  continued  she,  as  she  raised  her  lustrous  eyes 
towards  my  face,  "  promise  me  that,  if  you  should  die  first, 
you  will  speak  to  me  from  that  far  spirit-land."  And  then, 
gently  pressing  my  lips  upon  that  fair  brow,  I  promised. 

The  time  rapidly  approached  in  which,  at  length,  I  was  to  call 
Clara  mine  own — wedded  to  me  by  the  rites  of  the  church, 
as  she  had  already  been  united  by  the  ties  of  strong  affection. 
I  sate,  in  the  soft  repose  of  the  twilight  hour,  in  the 
chamber  which  I  had  occupied  when  a  boy — in  which  I  had 
mused,  and  studied,  and  written — in  which  I  had  carried  on 
the  studies  which  had  won  me  Fame.  In  the  crimson  west, 
like  a  glory,  the  sun  was  going  down,  and  the  meadows,  the 
corn-fields,  and  the  wooded  heights,  were  rosy  in  that 
purpling  glow.  Now  and  then,  from  the  adjacent  grove,  was 
heard  the  even-song  of  some  winged  melodist.  Far  oflf, 
faintly  came  the  tinkling  of  the  bells,  as  the  shepherd  led  his 
flock  to  the  fold.  And,  farther  yet,  came  the  music  of  the 
peal  from  the  village  church  in  the  valley,  fitfully  floating  up 
through  the  silence,  along  the  broad,  smooth  river,  and  across 
the  dewy  plain.  My  casement  was  open,  to  admit  the  gentle 
sounds,  and  the  breeze  came  softly  in.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
breathed  an  atmosphere  of  soft  repose. 

Suddenly,  in  that  fading  twilight,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
chamber  were  filled  with  a  rosy  flush,  which  shewed  every 


246  TRESSILIAN. 

object  clear  and  distinct,  as  if  a  hundred  tapers  had  at  once 
sent  forth  a  simultaneous  lustre.  In  that  flush  of  light  there 
seemed  a  glorious  Presence  —  the  semblance  —  but  purer, 
brighter,  and  more  beautiful — of  her  to  whom  my  love  was 
vowed,  on  whom  my  thoughts  had  been  dwelling  but  a 
moment  before.  I  rose — but  the  Presence  did  not  move.  I 
advanced,  and  put  forth  my  hand  :  it  touched  thin  air  !  And 
then,  sinking  back  into  my  chair,  I  knew  that  I  gazed  upon 
something  which  was  not  of  this  world.  I  spoke  to  it,  and 
questioned  whence  and  why  it  came.  Then,  in  a  low  voice, 
but  clear,  came  the  response,  which  told  me  that  my  visitant 
was  from  another  sphere.  And  while  I  listened,  awe-struck, 
the  same  voice  told  me  that,  beyond  this  life,  the  loved  of 
earth  do  meet,  knowing  each  other  there,  and  with  eternal 
happiness  meted  unto  each,  according  as  in  this  life  the  soul 
had  kept  itself  pure  from  the  soils  and  stains  of  earth. 

Awe-smitten  as  I  was — incapable  of  motion — feeling  as  in 
th-e  sight  of  an  Immortal,  I  yet  had  the  courage  to  ask 
what  was  the  sign  that  the  thing  was  true.  Then,  as  the 
Presence  put  forth  its  hand,  and  touched  my  brow,  I  felt  a 
thrill  throughout  my  frame,  which,  from  that  hour  to  this, 
has,  more  or  less,  continued;  a  burning  throb,  which  eVer 
seems  to  press  into  the  brain.  At  once,  there  followed  the 
flutter  of  wings,  and  a  snow-white  dove  swiftly  flew  out  of 
the  open  casement.  I  could  trace  its  heavenward  progress 
by  a  lengthened  track  of  light,  as  it  cleaved  through  the 
empyreal.  When  I  looked  once  more  within  the  chamber, 
all  was  dark.  Sensation  became  suspended  for  a  season,  and 
I  remained  for  some  hours  unconscious  of  the  world  around 
me. 

When  the  morning  came,  consciousness  returned,  and, 
fearing  the  worst,  I  flung  myself  upon  a  fleet  courser,  and 
hastened  to  where  my  love  resided — far,  far  distant.    Hour 


THE      GERMAN      STUDENT' S     STORY.  247 

after  hour  the  noble  barb  flew  onward.  At  the  decline  of 
day,  the  city  was  in  view.  The  horse  strained  his  utmost 
speed,  at  my  urging,  and  sank  down,  as  we  reached  her  home, 
wearied  with  his  exceeding  toil.  He  never  rose  again.  In 
after  days,  I  often  fancied  there  flashed  reproach  in  his  dark, 
full  eye,  ere  it  was  glazed  by  death. 

I  hastened  within  the  hall.  All  was  stilled  and  silent 
there.  I  passed  on.  Her  chamber  was  open.  There  was  a 
whisper  of  low,  sad  voices.  I  entered.  The  glare  of  many 
tapers  dazzled  me.  I  saw  the  funereal  equipage.  I  felt  that 
cold  mortality  lay  there.  I  saw  Clara,  beautiful  and  passion- 
less, her  long  hair  bound  with  the  death-fillet — flowers  in  her 
hand,  and  scattered  on  her  breast — her  face  pale  as  the  white 
sculpture  of  a  tomb.  At  the  very  hour  in  which  I  had  been 
visited  by  that  Presence,  in  which  an  Immortal  had  touched 
my  brow — in  which  the  snow-white  dove  had  soared  upward, 
beyond  my  straining  sight — she  had  died !  Could  I  doubt 
that,  true  to  the  compact  we  had  made,  the  liberated  soul's 
first  action,  when  it  reached  the  Life  beyond  the  grave,  was 
to  bring  me  the  assurance  which  I  needed  ? 

I  have  slight  mera.ory  of  what  followed.  They  told  me 
that  since  I  left  my  Clara,  she  had  drooped  like  a  flower. 
She  had  all  the  sweetness  of  the  violet,  and  its  fragility  also. 
They  said  that,  day  after  day,  her  form  became  more  and 
more  attenuated — her  cheeks  wasted  and  hectic-flushed.  She 
knew  that  she  was  dying,  but  forbade  them  to  acquaint  me 
with  her  condition,  lest  my  love,  my  fears,  might  ca|use  me  to 
relinquish  the  station,  in  that  glorious  strife  for  Freedom,  in 
which  my  country's  voice  had  installed  me.  Oh,  that  I 
could  have  seen  her  die — have  watched  and  solaced  the 
fleeting  spirit  of  the  fairest  and  the  best.  But  it  was  destined 
otherwise. 

No  further  consciousness  remains.      A  dim  memoiy  of 


248  TRESSILIAN. 

oppressive  madness  clings  to  me.  Then  came  release,  and 
return  to  the  world,  with  changed  aspect  and  saddened  soul. 
The  very  name  for  which  I  had  won  high  triumphs  remains 
with  me  no  more.  I  had  hoped  that  she  would  have  borne 
it — how  could  I  retain  it  when  she  was  no  more  ?  My 
kinsmen,  my  friends,  know  not  whether  I  yet  breathe  the 
difficult  air  of  human  existence.  Many  high  minds  have  not 
disdained  to  yield  their  sympathy  to  the  troubled  wanderer — 
but  my  heart  has  thanked,  while  it  resisted  their  kindness. 
My  hopes  reposed  on  one  fair  flower — the  storm  crushed  and 
strewed  its  beauty  in  the  dust ;  it  can  return  no  more,  but,  at 
least,  no  meaner  blossom  shall  bloom  where  that  beloved  one 
grew  and  withered. 


CEITICISM,  249 

"  It  must  be  admitted,"  said  Mr.  Crayon,  "  that  with  much 
extravagance  in  this  narrative  —  perhaps  I  might  more 
properly  call  it  a  monologue — there  is  considerable  power." 

"  Considerable  power — of  words,"  interrupted  the  Irishman. 
"  My  own  belief  is  that  the  young  gentleman  was  addicted  to 
opium  as  well  as  to  thick  German  beer  and  perpetual 
tobacco  smoking  ;  and  that  between  the  excitement  supplied 
by  the  first,  and  the  stupefaction  arising  from  the  other 
cause,  he  bemused  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  was  a  hero 
of  romance.  Certainly,  what  our  friend  Butler  has  been  so 
good  as  to  read  to  us  will  pass  muster  as  an  extravaganza, 
for  it  has  nothing  of  reality  from  first  to  last." 

Butler  reminded  him  that  he  had  prefaced  it  by  announcing 
that  the  Student's  sanity  was  wo-rse  than  doubtful. 

Tressilian  said  that,  if  their  taste  ran  on  the  supernatural, 
he  believed  he  could  gratify  them.  He  recollected  a  story 
which  he  had  heard  some  years  before,  and  it  had  made  an 
impression  upon  his  mind  which  he  feared  his  mode  of  telling 
would  not  make  upon  others.  However,  he  should  tell  the 
relation  as  he  had  heard  it. 


11^ 


250  TRESSILIAN. 


BLEEDmG-HEART  YAKD. 

Were  it  in  my  power  to  relate  the  story  as  I  heard  it» 
years  ago,  from  the  lips  of  one  who  firmly  believed  the  mar- 
vels which  she  told,  the  effect  upon  others  miglit  be  as  it  then 
■was  upon  me.  But  the  place,  the  listeners,  the  narrator — 
with  her  earnest  simplicity  of  diction,  her  overpowering  sense 
of  reality,  her  thrilling  tones,  her  expressive  looks,  her  strong 
credulity — should  all  be  present  to  produce  that  effect. 

When  we  were  young,  bow  an  old  crone's  ghost-stories,  by 
the  Christmas  fire,  shook  the  nerves,  and  paled  the  cheeks, 
and  froze  the  blood,  and  made  Curiosity,  like  the  Giaour  in 
"  Vathek,"  still  cry  out  for  "  More  !  more  !"  When  the  seri- 
ous and  calmer  day-thought  came,  we  could  smile  at  the  base- 
less terrors  of  the  yester-e'en.  The  scene — the  fitful  light 
from  the  midnight  ember  of  the  Yule-log — the  dark  shadows 
at  the  back — the  rustling  of  the  leafy  branches  without,  so 
clearly  heard  in  the  silence  of  the  night — the  weak  and  waver- 
ing voice  of  the  aged  story-teller,  herself  a  living  persona- 
tion of  the  Past,  a  link  between  the  living  and  the  dead — • 
these  combined  to  clothe  her  legends  in  the  garb  of  wonder. 
Had  they  been  told  by  others,  at  a  different  time,  or  in  a  dif- 
ferent place,  they  might  have  fallen  coldly  and  calmly  upon 
the  ear,  and  their  spell  would  have  feebly  moved  us. 

Thus,  an  anecdote  which,  in  its  relation  (by  one  whose  suf- 
ferings had  almost  unsettled  her  reason),  had  strangely  stirred 
my  spirit  to  its  depths,  may  fail  to  interest  those  to  whom  I 


BLEEDING-HEART      YARD.  251 

Bhall  endeavor  to  present  it  merely  as  it  was  spoken.  For 
there  is  an  expressive  eloquence  in  the  eye — the  quick  glance 
— the  open  brow — the  thrilling  tones — the  darkly  flowing  and 
dishevelled  hair — the  earnestness  of  spoken  narrative,  with 
its  depths  and  shadows,  which  I,  who  merely  recollect  and 
repeat,  must  fail  in  expressing.  With  this  brief  preface,  here 
is  the  legend,  as  I  heard  it : 


In  London,  that  stony-hearted  Leviathan  of  cities,  there  is 
one  spot,  nearly  in  its  centre,  into  which  many  close  alleys, 
and  crowded  courts,  and  narrow  lanes,  and  long  passages,  and 
murky  yards  daily  pour  out  a  rush  of  population,  like  the 
veins  sending  back  life-blood  to  the  human  heart.  Not  one 
of  those  places  but  has  some  sad  memory  associated  with  it — 
some  story  of  sin  or  sorrow,  of  silent  suflering,  or  of  deep 
crime.  Many  such  places  are  there  within  the  space  which 
we  call  Holborn.  A  populous  world  is  that  long  street,  with 
its  continuous  line  of  busy  traffic,  its  hum  of  many  voices — 
like  the  murmur  of  the  angry  waves  when  they  dash  into 
white  froth  and  tawny  spume  upon  a  rocky  coast.  It  was  not 
always  thus.  There  was  a  time  when  it  was  a  houseless  space, 
where  the  citizens  of  London  met  for  sports,  the  very  names 
of  which  have  departed,  like  the  memories  of  those  who  prac- 
tised them.  Afterwards,  one  of  the  Kings  who  held  sway  in 
London,  enclosed  these  city-meadows  with  a  wall,  and  bestowed 
them  as  a  gift  upon  some  cunning  courtier,  who  had  found  his 
way  to  the  royal  heart  by  flattery.  Next,  when  King  and  cour- 
tier had  passed  away,  the  fair  fields  came  into  possession  of  a 
brave  old  soldier,  who  had  won  fortune  and  fame,  in  the  wars 
with  France. 

This  was  the  Lord  Hatton.  He  built,  in  the  centre  of  this 
estate,  a  grand  chateau,  like  what  he  had  seen  abroad.    He 


252  '  TRE88ILIAN. 

had  a  gardener  from  the  Low  Countries,  to  lay  out  for  him  a 
beautiful  place,  with  terraces  and  fountains,  winding  walks 
and  green  swards,  fruit-trees  and  flowers,  quaint  sculptures  in 
stone,  and  curious  devices,  fancifully  cut  out  of  the  trees  which 
grew  there.  There  also  were  grottoes  of  spars  and  shells, 
which  gleamed  like  precious  stones  when  viewed  by  torch- 
light. There,  in  gilded  cages — as  if  splendor  could  diminish 
the  pain  of  captivity — were  rare  birds  from  lands  far  beyond 
the  sea.  The  palace  and  the  pleasure-grounds  are  gone — the 
most  searching  antiquarian  would  fail  to  find  a  trace  of  them. 
But  the  place  which  we  now  know  as  Hatton  Garden,  shews 
where  they  once  were.  They  were  the  marvel  of  their  day, 
and  their  owner  was  so  proud  of  them,  that  it  would  be  hard 
to  say,  which  he  more  cared  for — them,  or  the  fair  youth,  his 
only  son.  Well  and  tenderly,  piously  and  fondly,  he  had 
brought  up  this  youth.  In  time,  however,  the  old  lord  died, 
and  the  dwelling  and  the  garden,  the  jewels  and  the  gold, 
the  honours  and  the  title  descended  to  his  son. 

There  was  a  gorgeous  funeral,  and  the  King  attended  it, 
with  all  his  Court.  The  young  Lord  Hatton  then  wanted 
some  months  of  being  of  age,  but  preparations  soon  began 
to  be  made  for  the  rejoicings.  They  ransacked  foreign  lands 
for  whatever  was  rare  and  costliest,  to  celebrate  his  twenty- 
first  birth-day.  They  brought  arras  from  the  tapestry-makers 
of  Artois,  and  fine  linen  from  the  looms  of  Flanders,  and  rich 
wines  from  the  valleys  of  Burgundy,  and  cloth-of-gold  from 
the  store-houses  of  Genoa,  and  tall  mirrors  from  the  island- 
factories  of  Venice,  and  spices  from  the  fragrant  groves  of 
Arabia,  and  transparent  tissues  from  the  labour  of  the  dusky 
dwellers  in  India,  and  royal  carpets  from  the  merchants  of 
Persia,  and  gold  and  silver  plate,  rich  with  chased  adorn- 
ments, from  the  goldsmiths  of  Paris  and  the  carvers  of  Flo- 
rence.   For  the  Lord  Hatton  had  succeeded  to  wealth  capable 


BLEEDING-HEART     TARD.  253 

of  answering  almost  the  utmost  demands  of  extravagance, 
and  his  guardians  had  resolved  that  his  coming  to  man's 
estate  should  be  celebrated  in  no  niggard  manner. 

nie  gala-day  arrived.  The  King  himself  was  among  the 
earliest  guests,  anxious  to  judge  for  himself,  whether  Rumour 
had  exao-rrerated  the  fortune  and  luxurious  tastes  of  his 
wealthy  subject.  The  magnificence  of  that  day  was  never  to 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  saw  it.  Far  and  near,  it  was  spo- 
ken of  as  eclipsing  even  the  most  royal  splendour.  The  poets 
of  the  day  made  ballads  about  it,  which  for  a  long  time  were 
sung  in  rich  men's  palaces,  and  poor  men's  lowly  dwellings. 
Rich  wines  spouted  from  the  fountains,  from  dawn  of  day  to 
the  set  of  sun.  There  were  refreshments  laid  out  in  tents, 
includinof  the  substantial  fare  which  men  then  liked,  as  well 
as  delicate  luxuries  culled  from  many  a  distant  clime.  There 
were  crowds  of  servitors,  inviting  and  pressing  all  to  partake 
of  the  rich  viands  and  the  sparkhng  wines.  There  was  sweet 
music  from  skilful  players,  concealed  among  the  leaty  shrub- 
beries. There  was  a  long  portion  of  the  green  sward,  pressed 
down  and  closely  mown,  on  which  the  youths  and  maidens 
miofht  dance.  There  was  a  field-at-arras  for  the  bold  knio-hts 
who  attended  the  festival.  There  was  an  extensive  range  in 
which  the  yeomen  might  exercise  their  sports.  There  was 
something  to  suit  the  taste  and  rank  of  all,  rich  and  poor,  old 
and  young,  gentle  and  simple. 

The  place  was  thrown  open  to  all  who  pleased  to  visit  it, 
as  well  as  to  the  distinguished  specially  invited  by  the  Lord 
Hatton.  Among  the  lovely  visitors  was  one,  who  had  more 
beauty  than  the  brightest  of  all  the  other  fair  ones.  She  was 
very  lovely,  indeed,  and  exceedingly  proud  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  that  surpassing  beauty.  She  was  among  the  crowd, 
not  of  it.  Her  father  was  an  humble,  honest  man,  earning  a 
hard  living,  by  hard  labour.     She  was  discontented  with  her 


254  TRESSILIAN. 

lot  in  life.  Many  gallants  of  the  Court,  wlio  had  noted  her 
remarkable  beauty,  had  attempted  to  draw  her  from  her 
father's  humble  roof;  pride,  rather  than  principle,  had  as  yet 
prevented  her  fall.  She  was  heart-sick  with  discontent. 
There  was  this  aggravation,  also — she  had  been  educated 
above  her  station.  Adjacent  to  her  father's  cottage,  close  to 
what  we  now  call  St.  Martin's  Lane,  there  was  a  convent, 
where  she  had  been  tausrht  to  read  and  write — unusual  attain- 
merits,  at  that  time,  for  one  of  her  age  and  sex — and  increase 
of  knowledge  had  been  as  fuel  to  feed  the  flame  of  discontent, 
which  was  swelling  in  her  heart.  She  was  thus  exactly  ripe 
for  temptation.  Be  sure  that  the  Evil  One  ever  watches  the 
hour  and  seizes  the  occasion  to  do  his  will. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  determine  what  impulse  had  brought 
Edith  Lee,  for  that  was  her  name,  to  the  great  festival  given 
on  Lord  Hatton's  birth-day.  It  is  true  that  most  of  her 
neighbors  went,  but  theirs  was  no  example  for  one  who  ever 
had  scorned  to  follow  in  the  common  track,  and  had  hitherto 
avoided  exhibitions  of  grandeur  ; — for  when  they  were  over, 
it  made  her  very  sad  to  think,  as  she  sat  in  the  poor  cottage 
of  her  father,  that  others  should  be  splendidly  attired  and  lux- 
uriously surrounded  while  she  was  subject  to  the  lowest  wants, 
yet  with  a  feeling  that  her  capacity  for  enjoyment  was  as 
high  as  theirs.  Surely  she  had  not  gone  among  the  crowd  at 
Lord  Ilatton's  to  display  her  beauty  (she  was  too  proud  to  be 
vain),  for  she  had  half-hidden  her  face  beneath  the  large  wim- 
ple which  she  wore,  according  to  the  custom  of  her  humble 
condition  in  those  days,  and  had  concealed  her  figure  in  the 
ordinary  plain  attire.  A  mixture  of  curiosity  and  impatience 
had  brought  her  thither.  If  she  had  endeavored  to  define 
the  imiMilse  she  miwht  have  failed.  There  are  times  and  cir- 
cunistances  which  lead  us  to  act,  we  know  not  why,  as  if 
some  invisible  hand  pushed  us  forward — as  if  some  viewless 


BLEEDING-HEART     YARD.  255 

finger  of  resistless  fate  beckoned  lis  forward,  and  impelled 
us  to  obedience. 

As  Edith  Lee  stood  pale  and  still  as  a  Sibyl,  in  that  scene 
of  gaiety  and  mirth,  perhaps  her  bosom  was  the  only  one  in 
the  crowd  which  covered  a  heavy  heart.  Naturally  of  a  tem- 
perament more  lively  than  giave,  her  musings  had  turned  of 
late  into  that  thoughtful  meditation  from  which  tears  would 
be  a  great  relief,  but  to  calm  which,  tears  do  rarely  flow.  Her 
beauty  gained  more  in  expression  than  it  lost  in  force  by  this 
change.  The  light  of  her  glance  was  not  dimmed  but  softened, 
and  her  voice  had  a  subdued  sweetness,  like  that  born  of 
the  gentle  kiss  of  the  southern  breeze  upon  the  voiceful  chords 
of  the  ^olian  harp.  She  now  bore  a  deeper  beauty  than 
that  of  common  life — a  beauty  over  which  Thought  had 
gently  passed,  and  softly  left  a  trace  of  its  shadowy  presence. 
So,  in  the  world's  elder  days,  might  have  appeared  a  daughter 
of  earth  after  her  first  entrancing  interview  with  one  of  the 
Sons  of  God,  earthward  descended,  enamoured  of  her  beauty  ; 
and  so  might  she  have  stood  in  listening  mood,  after  having 
gazed  at  the  purpled  pinions  of  the  heavenly  visitant  on  his 
returning  flight,  thinking,  after  the  visible  Presence  had  passed 
away,  that  she  yet  heard  the  rustling  sounds  of  those  ether- 
cleavinnf  wino-s,  and  wonderino:  whether  she  should  ever  aijain 
bask  in  the  light  of  the  radiant  countenance  which  beamed 
with  glory  from  the  far  and  golden  empyreal. 

Thus  Edith  Lee  stood,  almost  concealed  in  the  shadow  and 
by  the  huge  trunk  of  an  ancient  tree — her  mind  far  away  in 
the  land  of  dreams,  as  she  gazed  upon  the  changing  brillian- 
cies of  the  sky,  fancying  each  cloud  an  island  in  which  it 
would  be  happiness  to  live  and  love.  Who  amonfj  us  has  not 
watched  the  sky,  when  its  blue  beauty  is  diversified  with  glo- 
rious piles  of  many-coloured  cloud,  in  which  Fancy  can  trace 
islets,  domes,  minarets,  and  mountains,  blended  yet  contrasted  ? 


256  TRESSILIAK. 

Who  has  not  sometimes  yielded  to  the  softening  influences  of 
the  subduing  even-tide,  and,  gazing  on  this  glorious  Cloud- 
land,  wished  that  he  had  wings  to  fly  away  and  be  at  rest 
among  one  of  its  many  mansions  ?  So  stood  and  gazed  Edith 
Lee,  and  so  she  thought,  until  there  came  the  sweet  voice  of 
music,  and  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  and  the  happy 
harmony  of  light  laughter,  and  the  joyful  murmur  of  mirthful 
lanofuaofe. 

There  was  one  voice,  among  the  many  that  were  audible, 
which  thrilled  through  her  very  heart.  It  was  musical,  clear, 
and  low  as  the  pleasant  sound  of  a  well-played  instrument. 
As  the  crowd  of  gallants  came  in  view,  she  recognized  one 
face,  one  form,  the  moment  she  saw  it, — a  recognition  which, 
thousrh  none  but  herself  was  or  could  be  aware  of  it,  caused 
a  heart-quake  which  covered  her  brow,  cheeks,  neck,  and 
bosom  with  a  sudden  flush.  Voice,  form,  and  face  were  such 
as,  night  after  night,  had  haunted  her  in  dreams,  ever  since 
her  proud  spirit  had  rebelled  against  her  lowly  condition  in 
life.     For  the  Tempter  had  marked  that  discontent 

Never  before,  never  before  had  she  thus  seen  him, — breath- 
ing, living,  speaking  in  her  presence.  But  he  had  been 
vividly  with  her  in  the  dream  by  night,  and,  though  less  dis- 
tinctly, in  her  waking  thoughts  by  day.  Her  heart  had  been 
filled  with  new  and  deep  sensations, — so  powerful  that  the 
blessed  daylight  sometimes  became  wearisome  to  her,  and  she 
lonired  for  niixht,  because  then  ao^ain  she  should  behold  this 
spirit-love  of  hers.  So  overpowering  was  this  new  sense,  thus 
strangely  operating,  that  often,  in  the  clear  noon-day,  she 
would  shut  her  eyes,  in  the  hope  that  in  this  semblance  of 
sleep,  when  external  objects  were  thus  shut  out,  he  would 
palpably  arise  before  the  vision  of  her  mind.  And  it  was  a 
strange  and  strong  peculiarity  in  this  life-in-sleep,  that  while 
in  di-eams  she  traced  and  passed  through  a  successive  series 


BLEEDING-HEART     YARD.  257 

of  adventures  with  tins  creation  of  her  fancy,  her  waiving 
thoughts  had  but  a  vague  and  uncertain  impression  of  him 
and  them.  Now  she  saw  him, — speaking,  smiling,  walking 
proudly  amid  a  group  of  gallant  gentlemen, — as  glorious  as 
ever  he  had  appeared  in  the  fair  and  boundless  world  of  sleep. 

The  crowd  of  gallants  passed  on,  Lord  Hatton  in  the  midst, 
and  Edith  Lee  remained  leaning  againt  the  old  tree,  straining 
her  siglit  after  them  long  after  they  had  gone  beyond  her  view. 
She  did  not  heed,  his  companions.  She  had  not  noted  how 
many  nor  how  few  they  were,  nor  what  their  appearance. 
She  only  felt  that  she  had  seen  him  —  that  he  was  a  crea- 
ture of  life  like  herself,  and  that  his  evident  rank  removed 
him  from  her  by  a  gulf  which  she  could  not  pass. 

Edith  Lee's  mind  was  so  much  the  prey  of  these  conflicting 
emotions,  that  she  did  not  note  how  long  she  remained  by  the 
old  tree.  After  a  time,  she  became  aware  that  somebody  was 
standing  opposite  to  her,  carefully  reading  her  features.  She 
saw  a  middle-aged  man,  well-dressed,  and  dark-featured,  with 
a  countenance  such  as  you  could  not  give  a  plausible  rea=".on 
for  not  liking,  and  yet  its  expression  such  as  one  does  not 
like  to  look  upon.  There  w-as  a  sneer  upon  his  thin,  pale 
lips,  and  a  sardonic  gleaming  in  his  glance,  which,  as  their 
eyes  met,  made  her  feel  uncomfortable.  She  would  fain  have 
moved  from  him,  for  his  glance  troubled  her,  but  it  seemed 
as  if  she  had  lost  all  power  of  voluntary  motion  and  speech. 
lie  held  her  there  with  his  glittering  eyes,  as  the  serpent  is 
said  to  fix  the  wild  birds  in  the  depths  of  the  Lidian  woods. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  hers,  and  the  touch,  light  as  it  was, 
thrilled  to  the  bone,  and  chilled  her  blood. 

He  spoke  to  her.  His  voice,  though  not  unmusical  in 
itself,  grated  harshly  on  her  ear.  He  spoke  in  a  tone  low 
enough  for  a  whisper,  yet  every  syllable  fell  distinctly  upon 
her  ear,  and  sank  into  her  heart. 


258  TRESSILIAN. 

"  You  soar  high,  lady-bird,"  said  he.  "  It  is  a  bold  dove 
who  would  seek  a  mate  iu  the  eagle's  eyrie.  You  love  that 
gay  young  lord — you  would  wed  him  ?"  he  bent  his  face  close 
to  hers  as  he  added,  "  and  you  shall.'''' 

She  shrunk  back  from  him  with  unconcealed  aversion,  and 
the  expression  of  his  features  became  terrible  in  its  demoniac 
and  scornful  beauty.  "What!  pretty  one,"  he  continued, 
"  you  shrink  from  your  friend,  who  has  the  power  and  the 
will  to  remove  the  cottage  flower,  and  place  it  in  the  glory 
of  the  palace  gardens.  Why,  trembler  ?  /  have  known  your 
wishes,  /  have  fashioned  your  dreams,  until  Sleep  has  become^ 
for  you  a  life  more  beautiful  than  any  reality  you  have  ever 
known.  Your  heart  rebelled  against  the  lowly  state  in  which 
you  are  placed,  and  that  rebellious  discontent  gave  me  power 
over  you.  Lo,  now !  you  shrink  from  my  words,  and  you 
never  shrank  from  my  works.  You  even  stand  upon  ground 
which  is  my  own.  Your  foot  rests  upon  the  grave  of  a  sui- 
cide. You  need  not  start !  By  his  pride  of  heart  he  killed 
his  mother ;  he  stained  a  name  which  never  until  then  had 
been  tarnished  by  the  breath  of  dishonour :  he  betrayed  his 
country ;  he  denied  his  God,  and  he  came  back  a  broken 
man,  to  hang  himself  from  the  very  tree  you  lean  against.  In 
childhood's  innocence  he  had  played  beneath  its  shade,  and 
the  huge  branch  that  bore  his  quivering  body  withered  from 
that  hour.  See,  it  hangs  above  you,  leafless  and  barkless,  as 
if  scathed  by  the  fiery  leven." 

Edith  Lee  heard  the  words  of  mockery,  and  her  spirit 
quailed  beneath  the  scowl  of  that  dark  and  mysterious  man. 
She  fell  in  a  heavy  faint,  yet  heard  a  whisper  in  the  air,  "  If 
you  would  wed  this  young  lord,  meet  me  at  midnight,  in  the 
churchyard  by  Saint  Maitin's  monastery." 

It  was  dusk  when  she  awoke.  She  left  Lord  Hatton's 
garden,  unnoticed  amid  the  crowd,  and  sought  the  solitude  of 


BLEEDING-HEART     YARD.  259 

her  own  little  chamber.  Here  she  thought  upon  -what  had 
passed,  and  shuddered  as  she  thought.  She  wept,  and  tears 
relieved  her.  Then  she  knelt  down  and  prayed.  That  night 
her  slumbers  were  peaceful  as  the  repose  of  an  infant. 

The  morrow  came,  brino-ino;  back  the  old  discontent  which 
had  vexed  her  spirit,  together  with  new  and  stirring  desires, 
which  the  sight  of  Lord  Hatton  had  excited.  Day  after  day 
sped  on,  and  there  was  an  end  now  to  the  bright  dreams 
which  had  made  night  so  longed-for.  The  very  lack  of  these 
sweet  \'isions  made  her  day-thoughts  turn  upon  their  living 
object.  As  she  often  saw  him  pass  her  door  now,  sometimes 
on  foot,  sometimes  on  horseback,  always  superior  to  his  com- 
panions, and  never  bestowing  upon  her  even  the  scanty  hom- 
age of  a  transient  glance,  she  was  in  no  chance  of  forgetting 
him.  ^ 

Weeks  thus  passed  on.  Then  came  the  rumour  that  the 
young  Lord  Hatton  was  about  to  wed  a  royal  ward.  The 
news  unnerved  Edith  Lee.  That  night  she  did  not  ■pray- 
So,  the  Tempter  resumed  his  power  of  her,  and  she  dreamed 
that  she  saw  a  bridal  throng,  and  that  she  stood  at  the  altar, 
with  Lord  Hatton  as  the  bridegroom.  Then  she  awoke,  and 
the  moonlight  glancing  coldly  in  through  the  dull  and  narrow 
casement,  dimly  revealed  the  squalid  poverty  of  her  chamber. 
Then,  once  again,  clear  and  low  came  the  remembered 
whisper,  "  If  you  would  wed  this  young  lord,  meet  me,  at 
midnight,  in  the  churchyard  of  Saint  Martin's  monastery." 

She  started  from  her  bed,  for  the  hour  was  at  hand.  She 
wound  up  the  contention  between  the  evil  spirit  and  the 
better  angel  in  her  heart,  by  resolving  to  try  whether  the 
Stranger  would,  indeed,  be  at  the  rendezvous.  No  necessity, 
slie  thought  in  her  pride,  for  compliance  with  his  demands, 
should  he  make  any ;  and  she  deemed — foolish  girl ! — that 
he  might  be  able,  perhaps,  to  imfold  or  influence  her  future. 


260  TRESSILIAN.  -    ? 

It  was  not  difficult  to  leave  lier  father's  cottage,  for 
Poverty  has  occasion  for  few  bars  and  bolts.  She  stole  out, 
with  noiseless  steps.  She  came  back  in  an  hour,  with  pale 
cheeks,  and  wild  eyes,  and  a  throbbing  brow.  Whom  she 
met,  what  passed,  what  pledges  she  received,  what  promises 
she  returned,  none  ever  rightly  knew ;  but  it  was  said,  in 
after  times,  that  she  had  signed  a  contract — signed  it  with  a 
pen  dipped  in  her  own  blood — with  the  Great  Enemy,  to 
give  herself  to  him,  body  and  soul,  at  a  future  day,  if  he 
would  procure  her  marriage  with  the  Lord  Ilatton.  She 
returned  to  her  bed.     She  could  not  pray  now. 

Next  dav,  as  Edith  Lee  was  standing  at  her  father's  door, 
a  noble  company  of  gallants  rode  by.  One  of  them — the 
chief — bent  low  to  the  beauty  of  Edith  Lee,  cap  in  hand,  until 
his  forehead  touched  the  mane  of  his  Barbary  charger.  That 
evening,  and  often  after,  he  came  to  the  cottage,  unattended 
and  disguised,  vainly  striving  to  gain  the  favour  of  Edith 
Lee — for  the  cunning  of  her  sex  taught  her  how  coyness 
wins  better  than  submission.  That  day  month,  to  the  wonder 
of  all,  Edith  Lee  became  the  bride  of  the  Lord  Hatton. 

Who  ought  now  to  have  been  half  so  happy  as  Edith  Lady 
Hatton  ?  Her  beauty  was  so  exquisite  that  even  the  ladies 
of  the  Court  admitted  it  to  be  scarcely  wonderful  that  she 
won  the  coronet  so  many  had  contended  for.  As  if  intuitively, 
she  immediately  assumed  the  manners  of  her  new  and  exalted 
station,  becoming  it  as  if  she  had  been  born  to  it.  All  hearts 
admired,  all  eyes  followed  her.  The  breath  of  scandal  never 
approached  her.  She  was  a  faithful  and  a  loving  wife.  She 
■was  the  idol  of  her  husband,  who  thought  nothing  that  wealth 
could  procure,  half  good  enough  for  her.  So  liberal  was  she 
in  her  largess  to  the  poor,  that  wherever  she  went  their  grati- 
tude loudly  poured  out  prayers  for  blessings  on  her  head. 
Yet,  with  all  her  beauty,  state,  and  wealth,  Edith  Lee  was  not 


BLEEDING-HE  IRT      TARD.  261 

liappy.  One  fatal  remembrance  cast  its  shadow  upon  her 
path. 

In  due  time,  an  heir  was  born  to  her  noble  lord.  Then  the 
shadow  upon  Edith's  brow  appeared  less  dark,  and  her  eyes 
lost  some  of  the  troubled  expression,  which  it  sometimes  had 
grieved  her  loving  husband  to  look  upon.  Now,  more  than 
ever,  she  gave  great  alms  to  the  poor ;  but,  even  in  the  West 
Minster,  to  which  she  sometimes  resorted  with  her  husband 
and  her  household,  neither  her  heart  nor  her  lips  were  moved 
with  prayer.  Something  heavy  was  upon  her  mind,  for- 
bidding her  to  pour  out  her  troubled  spirit  before  her  Maker. 
But  her  alms  to  the  poor  were  constant  and  ample,  her  gifts 
to  the  religious  houses  were  great ;  and  hence  it  happeffed 
that  the  common  voice  spoke  loudly  of  her  piety,  shown 
through  her  works — as  if  Charity  could  atone  for  the  lack 
of  Faith.  Yet,  oftentimes,  persons  profess  to  believe,  never 
showing  that  belief  by  their  actions  towards  their  fellow- 
men — as  if  Faith  could  atone  for  the  lack  of  Charity  !  It  is 
then  the  casket  without  the  jewel. 

As  years  rolled  on,  Edith  Lady  Hattou  appeared  of  lighter 
and  livelier  mood.  For  the  most  part,  she  now  thought  of 
the  Past  as  of  an  unpleasant  memory,  which  might  best  be 
cast  into  forgetful ness.  But  there  were  times  when  she  had 
awful  forebodings,  and  terrible  fears,  and  dread  despair ;  when 
her  eyes  would  have  a  fixed  and  stony  glare,  as  if  they  saw 
in  vacancy  that  which  they  hated  to  behold,  yet  could  not 
avoid — when  the  bloom  of  beauty  would  leave  the  face,  and 
an  unnatural  paleness  succeed — when  her  lips  would  try  to 
utter  faint  and  hurried  words  of  awe  and  supplication — when 
all  the  living,  breathing  world  around  her,  would  seem  as 
nothhig  before  the  compelling  power  of  that  dreadful 
Presence,  invisible  to  all  but  her !  At  last,  when  a  passion 
of  tears  had  relieved  her,  she  would  anxiously  inquire  what 


262  TRESSIHAN.  '^ 

she  had  spoken,  and  whether  they  could  glean  meaning  from 
her  words ;  and  then  would  hide  her  face  in  her  husband's 
bosom,  and  wonder  at  herself,  or  affect  to  wonder,  for  being 
so  weak  and  womanly. 

She  had  but  the  one  child,  a  boy  of  great  promise,  who 
was  barely  fifteen  when  her  husband  died.  She  bestowed 
great  care  upon  his  education,  and  had  him  brought  up  in 
the  fear  and  love  of  God.  For  herself,  she  now  frequented 
the  Minster  more  than  ever.  She  was  constant  at  matins 
and  vespers ;  but  she  never  knelt  in  the  confessional ;  she 
prayed  no  prayer  to  God  for  pardon  and  for  succour.  It 
seemed  to  her,  that  she  was  secure  from  her  enemy  in  the 
house  of  God,  though  even  there  she  could  pour  forth  no 
supplication  for  his  grace,  either  in  spoken  words  or  spiritual 
thought. 

The  youth  rose  to  manhood,  as  his  father  had  done,  and 
Edith  made  ample  preparation  for  celebrating  his  twenty-first 
birthday. 

Who  can  describe  all  the  splendour  of  that  brilliant  festi- 
val ? — the  smiles  and  the  glitter,  the  beauty  and  the  glare. 
The  choicest  of  the  company  assembled  in  a  stately  saloon, 
which  extended  the  whole  length  of  Hatton  House.  At  the 
top  of  this  saloon,  was  a  chair  of  state  for  the  Lady  Hatton, 
who  seemed  almost  as  beautiful  as  in  her  early  days  of  youth 
and  maidenhood.  Who  so  proud  as  that  fond  mother,  look- 
ing lovingly  upon  her  graceful  and  gallant  son. 

Upon  the  verge  of  midnight — the  latest  time,  according  to 
i  the  etiquette  of  that  epoch,  to  which  the  festivities  could 
decorously  be  continued — the  young  Lord  Hatton  went  to  his 
mother,  and  entreated  her  to  dance  the  last  measure  with  him, 
and  thus  wind  up  a  celebration  which,  he  said,  his  heart 
could  never  forget.  As  he  spoke,  he  took  her  hand  in  his, 
and  pleasant  tears  filled  his  mother's  eyes,  as  she  looked  upon 


BLEEDING-HEART      TARD.  263 

him,  and  drank  in  the  music  of  his  low  and  earnest  voice — 
soft  and  low  in  its  gentle  pleading.  For,  as  she  looked  and 
listened,  came  back  before  her  the  dreams  of  her  youth,  and 
their  glad  fulfilment;  and  she  joyed  to  see  by  her  side  such  a 
fair  imase  of  that  father  whom  she  had  loved  with  a  love 
which  seemed  as  if  it  were  indeed  a  portion  of  her  very  life. 

The  Lady  Hatton  smileti  upon  her  son  through  her  pleasant 
tears,  as  she  told  him  ^at  years  had  taken  away  the  buoy- 
ancy of  her  spirit,  and  of  her  motion ;  but  that  as  she  was 
loth  to  refuse  him  anything  upon  that  happy  day,  she  would 
even  join  with  him  in  the  dance,  if  he  could  not  find  a  more 
suitable  partner.  As  she  spoke,  she  looked  round  upon  the 
bright  company  of  ladies  who  were  present :  but  her  son  said, 
■with  a  pleasant  smile,  that,  in  truth,  he  had  already  danced 
•with  every  other  lady  in  the  room  ;  so  that  she  had  no  further 
pretence  for  declining  to  gratify  him.  Then  he  led  her  to 
her  place. 

The  dance  was  renewed,  and  the  Lady  Hatton  and  her  son 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  saloon,  that  they  might  close  the  festi- 
val by  treading  the  last  measure.  Merrily  sounded  the  music. 
Mirth  filled  all  hearts,  and  flashed  from  every  eye,  and  spoke 
from  many  a  lip.  Thus  all  went  on  pleasantly — even  noisily, 
perhaps — until  it  now  was  almost  time  for  the  lady  and  her 
son  to  lead  off  the  merry  gaillard,  and  with  it  conclude  that 
joyous  festival. 

Hark !  a  loud  crash  at  the  outer  door,  as  if  a  hundred  rude 
hands  were  loudly  striking  upon  it  at  once  !  A  sudden  pause  in 
the  music  and  the  dance  1  A  silence,  as  if  a  voice  of 
command  had  sounded  through  the  room — "  Speak  no 
more !" 

Men  looked  enquiringly  into  eacli  other's  faces,  as  if  to 
learn  what  could  cause  this  strange  noise  at  such  an  hour. 
Women  stood,  with  paled  faces  and  anxious  eyes,  in  utter  fear 


2G4  TRESSILIAN. 

and   wonderment.     And   then,   after   a   minute's  pause,  all 
smiled  at  the  interruption,  and  renewed  the  dance. 

Presently,  an  attendant  glided  in,  almost  unperceived ;  hut 
the  Lad  J  Hatton  saw  his  quivering  lips,  white  cheeks,  and 
frightened  eyes.  He  told  her,  in  awed  and  broken  words,  so 
low  that  no  ear  but  hers  could  hear,  that  they  had  opened  the 
door  to  a  Stranger,  who  demanded  instant  audience  with  her. 
The  lady  sent  back  for  answer  (but  h^  heart  sank  within  her 
as  she  spoke),  that  he  must  be  told  this  was  neither  time  nor 
place  for  any  but  invited  guests. 

The  attendant  speeded  to  deliver  this  message,  but  quickly 
came  back,  with  a  more  terror-stricken  countenance  than 
before,  to  falter  out  that  he  would  take  no  denial,  for  his 
second  and  more  imperative  message  was,  that  "  there  was  One 
below  who  must  have  instant  parley  with  the  lady,  and  his 
token  was,  their  last  meeting  in  the  churchyard,  by  St. 
Martin's  monastery." 

Paler  grew  the  lady's  cheek,  as  she  heard  this  second  mes- 
sage. There  are  times  when  the  thoughts  and  the  fears,  the 
anxieties  and  the  remorse,  the  pains  and  the  regrets,  the 
griefs  and  the  despair  of  a  life-time,  can  crowd  upon  the  heart 
in  one  brief  moment  of  intensest  agony.  Such  a  moment 
Avas  that  in  which  the  Lady  Hatton's  mind — awed,  unnerved, 
horror-stricken — was  rent  by  pangs  such  as  never  can  be 
described.  She  grasped  the  chair  which  stood  near  her,  and 
endeavored  to  steady  herself  by  its  support.  The  room  seemed 
to  swim  around  her.  Strange  sights  glanced  before  her  eyes. 
Strange  voices  made  unearthly  sounds  for  her  ears.  But  this 
bewilderment  was  brief  and  her  mind  instantly  cleared,  the  ter- 
rible consciousness  remaining,  in  fullest  reality,  that  dreadful 
evil  was  about  to  befall  her. 

Meanwhile,  the  merry  dance  went  on.  It  seemed  as  if  no 
one  had  noticed  the  alteration,  which,  in  little  more  than  a 


BLEE  D  I  X  G-HE  ART     TARD.  2G5 

minute,  had  taken  place  in  tlie  aspect  of  the  Lady  Hatton. 
Her  cheeks  were  pale  as  marble ;  her  eyes  were  dulled  into  a 
fixed  and  death-like  stare ;  her  lips  had  lost  all  colour ;  her 
frame  was  shaken  with  emotion.  Her  son,  who  stood  a  little 
behind  her,  was  speaking  gaily  to  a  smiling  maiden,  with 
whom  he  had  danced  earlier  in  the  evening,  and,  thus  occu- 
pied, he  did  not  observe  and  could  not  note,  the  strong  heart- 
quake  of  emotion,  which  so  greatly  agitated  his  mother. 

A  heavy  tramp  of  feet  upon  the  stairs ;  yet  no  ear  heard  it 
except  hers.  The  door  was  burst  open,  as  if  a  mighty  whirl- 
wind had  dashed  it  in.  No  one  noticed  it,  and  the  dance 
went  blithely  on.  A  tall  figure  advanced  to  the  Lady  Hatton. 
Her  cry  of  terror  was  stifled  in  her  throat.  The  well-remem- 
bered glittering  eyes  were  upon  her,  with  their  demoniac 
leer.  She  had  now  lost  all  power  over  herself,  but  retained 
consciousness  and  sensation.  The  dark  Stranger,  with  a  smile 
of  mock  courtesy  which  iced  her  life-blood,  took  her  jew- 
elled hand  and  led  her  forth  to  dance.  Then,  as  he  whirled 
her  around,  rapidly  increasing  the  motion  as  he  proceeded, 
the  guests  first  noticed  his  presence.  A  thick  yellow  cloud 
gradually  filled  the  room,  and,  as  its  density  increased,  the 
pestilent  vapour  almost  blinded  the  eyes,  and  rendered 
difficult  the  breathing  of  all. 

When  the  cloud  dispersed,  in  a  few  minutes,  all  looked  for 
the  Lady  Hatton.  But  none  could  see  her  in  the  room.  The 
last  sight  of  her  was  as  she  rapidly  glided  through  the  door, 
with  an  expression  of  torture  on  her  face,  while  that  dark 
Visitor  sustained  her  from  falling.  Her  chair  was  found 
crashed  into  many  fragments.  The  carcanet  which  she  had 
worn  around  her  neck  was  found,  shattered,  on  the  floor.  Of 
herself  there  was  no  further  trace — but  the  attendant  who 
had  announced  the  fearful  Stranger,  confirmed  what  others  had 
beheld,  for  he  declared  that  he  had  seen  him  lead  her  forth 

12 


266  •■  TRESSILIAN. 

to  dance,  that  he  had  whirled  her  round  and  round  with 
resistless  force,  and  that  thus  they  had  glided  out  of  the 
saloon  toofether. 

In  the  midst  of  the  wonderment,  while  they  were  yet 
listening  to  the  broken  sentences  of  the  attendant,  there 
suddenly  arose  a  dreadful  confusion  in  the  disquieted  air. 
High  and  shrill  was  heard  a  piercing  shriek  of  bodily 
anguish.  Then  came  unearthly  laughter,  as  of  a  Demon ; 
and  then  yell  followed  yell,  while  wild  laughter,  the  dreadful 
merriment  and  mockery  of  a  fiend,  alternated  with  woman's 
shrieks  of  hopeless  agony  and  dread  despair.  After  a  time, 
all  again  was  silence.  As  with  a  sudden  and  simultaneous 
impulse,  the  guests  rushed  out  of  the  house  in  a  body.  The 
young  Lord  Hatton,  who  had  fallen  into  a  swoon,  was 
attended  by  skilful  physicians,  but  many  days  elapsed  before 
he  awoke  to  consciousness. 

In  a  remote  part  of  Hatton  Garden  (beneath  the  very  tree 
which  shaded  the  grave  of  the  suicide,  where  Edith  Lee  had 
first  seen  Lord  Hatton,  and  by  which  the  Evil  One  had  first 
spoken  to  her),  were  found,  the  day  after  the  festival,  one  lock 
of  long,  dark,  silky  hair,  and  a  human  heart,  rent  in  twain, 
and  bleeding.  Fragments  of  flesh  were  found  in  various 
parts  of  that  extensive  garden,  as  if,  indeed,  a  human  being 
had  been  torn  to  pieces  in  the  air,  and  scattered  piecemeal  on 
the  earth.  But  it  was  beneath  the  old  tree,  and  upon  the 
mound  which  covered  the  unhallowed  dust  of  the  suicide, 
that  the  Bleeding  Heart  was  found. 

The  young  Lord  Hatton,  struck  with  awe  at  the  terrible 
event,  never  more  took  his  wonted  place  in  the  world.  He 
became  a  brother  of  the  Cistercian  order  of  St.  Martin,  and 
gave  his  estates  for  the  benefit  of  the  monastery,  on  the 
condition  that  they  gave  a  perpetual  mass  for  the  repose  of 
his  unhappy  mother's  soul.    After  a  time,  these  estates  were 


BLEEDING-HEART     YARD.  267 

sold.  The  mansion  was  demolished,  for  none  were  willing  to 
reside  in  it,  the  popular  belief  being,  that  at  certain  times, 
strange  scenes  were  re-enacted  within  its  walls.  As  the  city- 
increased,  the  land  was  built  upon,  and  one  portion,  now  a 
populous  street,  retaining  the  familiar  name  of  all,  is  called 
Hatton  Garden  to  this  day.  Even  yet  (although  the  parti- 
culars of  the  story  have  nearly  fallen  out  of  memory),  the 
place  where  the  heart  of  the  Lady  Hatton  was  found,  bears 
the  name  of  Bleeding-Heart  Yard. 


268  TRESSILIAN. 

After  this  story  had  fairly  run  the  gauntlet  of  criticism — 
which  there  is  no  occasion  here  to  repeat — Mr.  Butler  again 
challenged  our  attention,  and  said  that  as,  unfortunately,  the 
German  Student's  Story  had  failed  to  please  our  friend  Mr. 
Moran — who,  as  yet,  had  carefully  avoided  any  contribution 
of  his  own  to  the  general  stock  of  tale-telling,  he  would 
venture  on  another,  of  a  different  sort,  which  he  trusted 
would  be  more  fortunate. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Moran,  heartily,  "  I  never  meant  to 
intimate  that  your  story  did  not  please  me — but  I  am  glad 
of  the  mistake,  as  it  will  get  another  story  out  of  you.  As 
for  myself — only  wait  until  the  next  sitting,  and  maybe  I 
won't  come  out  twenty  thousand  strong,  like  an  Irish 
Rebellion." 

"  Mine,"  remarked  Butler,  "  I  shall  ask  permission  to  read, 
as  I  found  it,  this  afternoon,  among  some  other  half-forgotten 
papers  in  my  desk.  It  is  a  short  affair — a  sort  of  half-history 
sketch,  as  Lawrence  used  to  designate  his  portraits  of  dis- 
tinguished characters." 


BEATRICE     d'eSTE.  269 


BEATRICE    D'ESTE. 

In  one  of  the  large  rooms,  of  the  palace  of  Versailles  (in 
the  suite  immediately  under,  and  in  communication  with, 
that  occupied  by  Louis  XIII.  himself),  reposed  a  man, 
enfeebled  in  health,  but  of  a  giant  mind,  who  had  just 
achieved  the  greatest  triumph  of  his  life.  Armand  Jean  du 
Plessis,  better  known  in  history  and  romance  as  the  Cardinal 
Kichelieu,  had  just  beaten  down  every  barrier  between 
himself  and  Power — had  succeeded,  by  a  bold  and  adroit 
manoeuvre,  in  persuading  the  King  to  banish  Mary  de  Medici, 
the  queen  mother,  to  Compeigne — and  had  obtained  the 
royal  promise  that,  thenceforth,  without  his  will,  nothing  of 
moment  should  be  executed  by  the  Ministry.  It  was,  in 
short,  the  evening  of  the  famous  Tenth  of  November,  1630, 
ever  afterwards  known — from  the  manner  in  which  the  wily 
Cardinal  had  made  his  enemies'  plots  turn  against  them- 
selves— as  "  The  Day  of  the  Dupes." 

That  day  had  been  a  stormy  one,  as  far  as  the  passions 
■were  concerned  ;  and  he,  whose  part  it  had  been  to  "  ride  on 
the  whirlwind,"  now  lay,  in  deep  repose,  upon  a  couch  which 
was  placed  before  the  ample  and  well-plenished  fire-place. 
No  light  in  the  apartment,  save  that  fitfully  cast  up  from  the 
wood-fire  ;  no  sound.  All  was  hushed  while  the  Cardinal 
enjoyed  the  first  slumber  which  his  unquiet  spirit  had  allowed 
him  for  a  long  time.     It  was  the  deep  slumber  of  exhaustion. 


270  TRE88ILIAN 

Mind  and  body  had  alike  been  overworked,  and  tbe  quiet  and 
dreamless  sleep  was  alike  grateful  to  both. 

Even  in  the  ante-chamber,  where  there  usually  is  whisper- 
ing, at  least,  all  was  hushed.  The  pages  held  their  breath. 
The  armed  guards  stood,  sat,  or  lay  at  listless  lengths,  silent 
as  if  they  were  so  many  mutes.  Every  one  there  knew  how 
vitally  necessary  it  was  for  their  master's  health  that  he 
should  enjoy  the  refreshment  of  repose — more  than  one 
physician  had  solemnly  declared  as  much — and  as,  albeit 
harsh  to  the  many,  Richelieu  was  generous,  gentle,  and  even 
kind,  to  the  few  who  tended  on  him  in  the  household  or  on 
guard,  good  care  was  taken  by  all  that  his  rest  should  remain 
undisturbed. 

Two  or  three  times,  with  stealthy  steps,  a  youth  named 
Jean  de  Lisle  went  into  the  room  wherein  the  Cardinal 
reposed.  Now  he  adjusted  the  cushion,  so  as  to  raise  the 
sleeper's  head  ;  anon,  he  arranged  the  fire,  so  as  to  divert  its 
glow  from  the  face  to  the  person  of  the  Cardinal.  Silently 
did  he  glide  into  and  from  the  apartment,  and  "He  still 
sleeps,"  given  in  the  lowest  of  all  possible  whispers,  was  the 
only  response  he  deemed  it  necessary  to  make  to  the  ques- 
tionings, more  of  looks  than  language,  in  the  outer  room. 

Meantime,  in  the  King's  apartments,  preparations  had  been 
made  for  a  sumptuous  banquet — one  of  the  gorgeous  enter- 
tainments which  the  thirteenth  Louis  had  a  passion  for  giving. 
Expectation  was  high  on  this  occasion,  for  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
who  had  just  secured  the  proud  position,  which  he  quitted  but 
when  he  quitted  life,  was  known  to  be  one  of  the  invited 
guests;  and,  while  many  were  preparing,  at  the  earliest  op- 
portunity, to  pay  homage  to  his  greatness,  all  were  curious  to 
note  how  he  should  bear  himself  in  that  new  position  which 
made  him  virtual  ruler  of  his  country. 

The  hour  had  arrived.    The  guests  had  assembled.    The 


BEATRICE     d'eBTE.  271 

King  himself  had  entered.  Richelieu  was  not  there.  The 
royal  brow  became  clouded.  Happily,  St.  Simon,  the  favourite, 
was  at  hand,  and  blandly  suggested  that,  perhaps  the  Cardi- 
nal had  been  detained  by  State  affairs.  A  messenger  was 
dispatched  to  summon  him,  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes, 
with  his  gay  plumage  somewhat  ruffled.  Inquiry  was  made 
as  to  the  cause,  and  the  answer  was  that,  on  repairing  to  the 
Cardinal's  apartments,  a  malapert  attendant,  known  to  the 
complainant  as  Jean  de  Lisle,  had  not  only  forbidden  perso- 
nal access  to  his  Eminence,  but  had  absolutely  refused  to  con- 
vey any  message  to  him.  The  King,  amused  rather  than 
annoyed  at  this  report,  whispered  to  St.  Simon,  that  he  was 
half-inclined  to  go  to  Richelieu's  rooms,  and  personally  assure 
himself  of  the  real  cause  of  his  absence.  A  monarch's  wish 
is  speedily  in  course  of  fulfilment.  The  King  and  the  courtier 
stepped  out  of  the  gay  saloon.  Each  threw  a  cloak  over  his 
rich  dress,  and  immediately  afterwards  both  had  descended 
the  stairs  and  were  at  the  door  which  opened  from  the  main 
corridor  into  the  suite  of  rooms  occupied  by  Richelieu. 

They  met  with  exactly  such  a  brusque  reception  as  De  Lisle 
had  given  to  the  palace-servant — no  actual  want  of  courtesy, 
but  a  firm  refusal  to  admit  any  one  into  the  privacy  of  his 
Eminence,  the  Cardinal,  or  even  to  convey  a  message  to  him. 

"  Not  even  from  the  Kinor  2"  asked  Louis. 

"  No,"  replied  De  Lisle  ;  "  not  even  from  the  King." 

There  was  something  at  once  exciting  and  inexplicable  in 
this  pertinacity,  and  Louis  determined  to  solve  the  riddle. 

"  You  will  admit  me  .^"  said  he,  allowing  his  regal  apparel 
and  adornments  to  be  seen  from  beneath  the  long  roquelaire 
which  covered  him. 

The  young  man,  albeit  he  bent  his  knee,  as  he  recognised 
the  monarch,  still  declared  that  he  dared  not  give  admittance 
even  to  him. 


272  TRESSILIAN. 

What  migLt  have  followed  is  uncertain — for  sovereigns, 
like  many  of  their  subjects,  do  not  become  milder  for  being 
opposed — but,  at  this  moment,  the  door  of  the  inner  apart- 
ment opened,  and  Richelieu  stood  opposite  to  the  King.  To 
him  Louis  turned,  and,  in  a  tone  of  anger,  and  with  an  air  of 
chagrin,  asked  wherefore  access  to  him  had  been  refused  ? 
Jean  de  Lisle  was  called  on  to  explain,  and  justified  his  con- 
duct by  stating  that  seeing  how  much  the  health  of  the  Car- 
dinal his  master,  had  been  injured  by  want  of  needful  repose, 
he  had  ventured  upon  some  small  skill  in  medicine,  and 
backed  by  the  opinion  of  the  physicians  that  sleep  must  be 
obtained  by  some  means,  if  health  Avere  to  be  preserved — he 
had  ventured  to  mingle  a  gentle  opiate  with  his  drink  for  the 
afternoon  repast,  and  was  unwilling,  at  any  risk,  to  allow  the 
slumber  thus  obtained  to  be  disturbed.  The  Cardinal,  thank- 
ing De  Lisle  for  the  good  he  had  wrought,  and  acknowledg- 
ing how  much  he  felt  recruited  by  the  repose  he  had  obtained, 
entreated  the  King  to  pardon  one  whose  fault  had  arisen  out 
of  the  best  motives. 

Louis,  whose  fortune  it  ever  had  been  to  know  many  flat- 
terers and  but  few  friends,  replied  that,  for  his  own  part,  he 
freely  forgave  what  had  been  solely  caused  by  regard  for  a 
Minister,  whose  life  was  so  essential  to  the  glory  of  France, 
and  the  honour  of  her  King. 

"But,"  added  he,  "if  this  servitor  of  yours,  thus  faithful, 
affectionate,  and  bold,  will  enter  our  service,  we  may  shew 
him,  better  than  by  mere  words,  how  much  we  esteem  such 
fidelity,  affection,  and  courage." 

Jean  de  Lisle  looked  at  Richelieu,  who  motioned  him  to 
kneel  before  the  King.  The  jewelled  hand  of  the  monarch 
was  graciously  extended  and  reverently  kissed. 

"  Next  to  our  own  person,"  said  Louis.  "  Ever  at  hand, 
and  as  vigilant  for  us  as  you  have  been  for  the  Cardinal" 


BEATRICE     d'eSTE.  2*73 

Thus,  in  a  moment,  the  page  of  Richelieu  was  made  one  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  King.  This  done,  Louis  and  the  Car- 
dinal, followed  by  St.  Simon  and  De  Lisle,  proceeded  to  the 
presence-chamber,  where,  of  course,  all  proper  homage  was 
paid  to  the  nominal  and  actual  possessors  of  power. 

Thus  ended  the  famous  "  Journee  des  Dupes."  The  King 
lost  his  mother  and  gained  a  page.  The  Cardinal  obtained 
sovereign  sway — and  a  sound  sleep. 

Jean  de  Lisle  was  fortunate  in  having,  from  his  childhood, 
been  favoured  with  the  protection  of  Cardinal  Richelieu. 
When,  at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  Armand  Jean  du  Plessis, 
was  made  Bishop  of  Lu9on,  his  elevation  was  attributable,  in 
some  degree,  to  the  friendship  of  the  Count  de  Lisle,  then  in 
the  service  and  honoured  with  the  confidence  of  Henry  the 
Fourth.  He  had  known  Armand's  family,  had  received  kind- 
ness from  them,  and  was  happy  in  being  able  to  return  it,  in 
some  degree,  by  recommending  his  friend  as  well  qualified, 
from  ability,  no  less  than  a  taste  for  letters,  for  the  vacant 
see.  In  doing  this,  he  had  given  the  first  impetus  to  the  for- 
tunes of  him  who,  as  Cardinal  and  Due  de  Richelieu,  fills 
many  a  page  in  the  annals  of  France.  But  the  elder  De  Lisle 
died  suddenly — even  before  his  royal  master  fell  under  the 
knife  of  the  fanatic,  Ravaillac,  and  bequeathed  his  only  son 
to  the  friendship  of  Richelieu.  The  trust  had  been  faithfully 
executed.  The  best  education  of  the  time  had  been  bestowed 
upon  Jean  de  Lisle,  and,  for  some  years  past  he  had  occupied 
a  place  in  the  confidence  and  near  the  person  of  his  patron. 
He  had  been  page,  until  he  had  outgrown  all  appearance  of 
such  an  office,  and  had  latterly  been  more  of  an  aide-de-camp 
(for,  like  the  King,  the  Cardinal  affected  the  protective  dignity 
of  a  body-guard  of  his  own)  and  his  skill  in  all  warlike  exer- 
cises well  qualified  him  for  a  post  at  once  so  important  and 

12* 


274  TRESSILIAN. 

confidential.  It  has  already  been  told  what  devotedness  lie 
displayed  in  the  service  of  the  Cardinal. 

The  change  which  had  taken  place  in  his  position,  while  it 
placed  him  immediately  in  attendance  on  the  King,  did  not 
weaken  his  attachment  to  the  Cardinal.  Grateful  for  the 
notice  constantly  and  kindly  taken  of  him  by  the  King,  a 
warm  attachment  for  his  Majesty  sprang  into  De  Lisle's 
mind ;  and  when  Louis  perceived  this — his  amour  propre 
being  somewhat  flattered  by  the  constant  evidence  of  such 
afi'ection — he,  in  turn,  began  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  young 
cavalier.  Is  that  wonderful  ? — Is  it  not  much  to  know,  that 
even  one  heart  cherishes  esteem,  regard,  and  love  for  you  ? 
The  confidence  which  Louis  thus  came  to  place  in  De  Lisle 
was  great,  as  may  be  judged  from  a  circumstance  which  is 
now  to  be  related. 

After  the  Queen-Mother's  enforced  departure,  some  of  her 
suite  remained  in  Paris ;  but,  when  the  Cardinal  had  reason 
to  believe  that  some  of  them  so  remained  as  spies,  he  pe- 
remptorily named  a  day  before  which  each  and  all  of  them 
should  quit  Paris,  and  determined  that  without  any  excep- 
tion, such  as  were  not  natives  of  France  should  return  to  their 
proper  birth-land. 

Beatrice  d'Este,  a  maiden  of  exalted  rank  and  extreme  beauty, 
was  one  of  the  ladies  thus  destined  by  the  Cardinal's  supreme 
will,  to  return  home.  She  had  been  sent  on  a  visit  to  Mary 
de  Medici,  about  two  years  before,  and  by  her  had  been 
treated  as  a  friend  and  equal. 

The  retinue  which  was  to  escort  her,  was  placed  under  the 
command  of  Jean  de  Lisle.  It  was  part  of  the  King's  policy, 
as  counselled  by  Richelieu,  to  maintain  the  appearance  of 
perfect  respect  towards  the  banished  Queen-Mother,  and  he 
well  knew  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  learn  that  her  favour- 


BEATRICE      d'eSTE.  275 

ite  friend,  the  young  Beatrice,  liad  been  sent  back  to  her 
Italian  home  under  the  protection  of  one  of  the  trustiest  and 
most  confidential  ofall  his  younger  men-at-arms. 

They  left  Paris.  The  power  of  Richelieu,  which  few 
foreign  states  then  dared  dispute,  had  obtained  a  safe-conduct 
for  the  party  through  Germany  and  the  Italian  States.  Plea- 
sant enough  was  the  journey,  made  in  easy  stages,  from  a 
desire  not  to  fatigue  the  lady.  Soon,  thrown  into  constant, 
hourly  communion  with  her,  as  the  leader  of  her  escort,  De 
Lisle  had  learned  how  powerful  are  the  bonds  which  associ- 
ation forges.  Had  he  seen  Beatrice  at  the  Court  of  King 
Louis,  he  might  have  passed  her  by  without  notice  ;  for  who, 
amid  a  galaxy,  will  single  out  one  "  bright  particular  star" — but 
here,  and  thus,  ever  at  her  side,  vigilant  for  her  safety,  careful 
for  her  comforts,  anxious  to  amuse  her,  he  had  opportunity  for 
learning  that  the  maiden  had  greater  beauty  than  that  of 
form  or  feature — ^that  her  mind  was  bright  with  intelligence 
— that  she  was  a  being  to  be  loved,  even  though  he  fancied 
she  was  too  far  above  him  for  Hope,  the  castle-builder,  to 
fancy  as  within  his  reach.  With  the  damsel  the  case  was  not 
very  dissimilar.  Beatrice  d'Este  had  unconsciously  permitted 
the  young  cavalier  to  have  an  interest  in  her  heart,  had 
accustomed  herself  to  take  pleasure  in  his  society,  was  pleased 
to  see  with  what  grace  he  sate  his  horse,  was  charmed  with 
the  frankness  of  his  convesation,  was  puzzled  at  thinking  whe- 
ther she  had  seen  any  other  young  noble  at  the  French  Court, 
of  such  manifold  merits,  and  did  not  care  to  meditate  on  the 
strong  probability  that,  this  journey  ended,  she  might  never 
asain  behold  him. 

Forward  they  went.  Through  France  into  Germany.  Soon' 
was  imperial  Innspruck  left  behind — next  the  Julian  Alps 
were  passed — and  then  they  went  down  by  Treviso  and 
through  learned  Padua.     At  last  they  were  within  the  terri- 


276  TRESSILIAN. 

tory  of  Ferrara,  where  the  journey  was  to  terminate.  Scarcely 
had  the  little  cavalcade  entered  that  territory,  when  an  event 
of  some  importance  took  place. 

Beatrice  d'Este,  niece  to  Alphonso  II.  of  Ferrara — the 
prince  whose  harsh  treatment  of  Torquato  Tasso,  the  poet,  has 
given  him  an  infamous  memory — had  been  sent  to  Paris,  by 
desire  of  certain  of  the  nobility  most  devoted  to  the  house  of 
Este,  in  order  to  obtain  the  influence  of  Mary  de  Medici  in 
her  favour.  On  Alfonso's  death,  without  a  male  heir.  Pope 
Clement  VIII.  had  declared  that  the  papal  fiefs  held  by  the 
house  of  Este  had  lapsed  to  the  Church.  Duke  Caesar,  who 
had  succeeded  Alfonso,  surrendered  the  Ecclesiastical  fiefs, 
but  retained  possession  of  those  which  were  held  under  the 
Empire.  The  nobility  of  Ferrara,  who  disliked  him  for  his 
illegitimate  birth,  submitted  to  his  retention  of  Modena  and 
Reoforio,  but  were  much  disinclined  to  allow  him  to  rule  over 
themselves.  On  the  other  hand,  they  objected  to  being  trans- 
ferred to  the  dominion  of  the  Church,  and  had  secretly 
solicited  Mary  de  Medici  to  assert  the  claims  of  Beatrice 
d'Este  to  the  fiefs  of  Ferrara,  which  her  family  had  held  so 
long,  liefore  Mary  was  exiled  to  Compeigne,  she  had  not 
been  able  to  bring  the  subject,  as  its  importance  required, 
before  the  favourable  notice  of  her  son,  Louis  XIll.  Far  and 
near  as  his  espionage  extended,  Riclielieu  could  not  remain 
ignorant  of  the  pretensions  of  Beatrice.  While  they  were  not 
asserted  for  her,  or  by  her,  he  saw  no  cause  for  interference. 
It  happened,  rather  singularly,  that  the  person  most  interested 
cared  little  for  the  honours  which  her  friends  wished  to 
restore  to  her.  Beatrice  d'Este  would  have  much  preferred 
the  quietude  of  retirement  to  the  gilded  pomps  of  such  a 
sovereignty  as  that  of  Ferrara. 

The  castle  of  Este,  not  very  far  from  Padua,  was  still  held 
for  Beatrice,  as  portion  of  tho  property  which  had  been  the 


BEATRICE     d'eSTE.  277 

dowry  of  her  mother.  Thither  the  travelling  party  were 
now  speeding — two  of  them  rather  mournful,  it  must  be 
confessed,  at  the  thought  that  there  would  terminate  the 
acquaintance  and  companionship  which  both  had  found  so 
pleasant.  However,  they  were  not  destined  to  part  quite  so 
soon. 

Italy  was  overrun  at  that  time  by  gangs  of  robbers,  who 
had  pretty  good  information  respecting  travellers  of  note, 
the  course  they  meant  to  take,  and  the  property  they  cai'ried 
with  them.  In  the  vicinity  of  Este  one  of  these  lawless 
gangs  had  located.  The  little  party  commanded  by  De  Lisle 
had  scarcely  entered  the  defile  leading  to  the  Castle,  when  it 
was  suddenly  attacked  by  these  armed  ruffians.  The  assail- 
ants were  superior  in  numbers ;  but  the  gallantry  of  the 
French  men-at-arms  prevailed,  and  the  robbers  were  beaten 
off  with  heavy  loss.  Jean  de  Lisle  was  seriously  wounded  in 
the  melee,  and  it  was  fortunate  for  his  personal  safety,  that 
the  Castle  of  Este,  to  which  he  was  conveyed,  was  so  near 
the  place  of  contest. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  De  Lisle  received  every 
attention  which  his  sufferings  required.  Months  elapsed  ere 
he  was  convalescent,  and  the  French  escort  under  his 
command  had  long  since  been  dismissed.  Beatrice  d'Este 
certainly  did  not  neglect  the  young  champion,  who  had 
suffered  so  much  in  her  cause.  But,  latterly,  as  his  strength 
became  renewed,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  would  be  able  to 
return  to  Paris  before  long,  the  maiden  grew  unusually 
thoughtful,  more  addicted  to  solitary  musings  than  of  yore, 
and  evidently  making  efforts — not  always  very  successfully — 
to  give  as  little  of  her  society  to  De  Lisle  as  strict  courtesy 
could  warrant.  Love,  without  her  having  dreamt  of  such  a 
thing,  had  become  the  inmate  of  her  bosom.  Her  female 
attendants,  with  the  natural  shrewdness  and  sympathy  of  her 


278  TRESSILIAN. 

sex  and  age,  had  observed  this  long  before  she  bad  even  a 
suspicion  how  the  case  stood  ;  but  then,  it  is  proverbial  that 
the  lookers-on  see  more  of  the  game  than  the  players. 

The  day  of  departure  was  named.  Beatrice,  heart-weary 
"with  the  tumult  of  confiictino;  feelino-s,  withdrawing  herself 
from  all  human  observation,  had  taken  a  favourite  seat  on 
the  flat  roof  of  her  habitation.  It  was  in  the  soft  and  gentle 
twilight,  and  hither,  at  that  hour,  she  had  long  been  wont  to 
come,  with  her  embroidery,  her  lute,  her  pencil,  or  her  book. 
Now,  they  were  all  neglected.  The  impassioned  lines  of 
poetry  were  in  her  hand — page  after  page  had  been  turned 
over  and  gazed  at,  but  she  knew  not  what  the  pages  said. 
Her  abstraction  was  so  great  that  she  neither  heard  nor 
heeded  the  familiar  footstep  by  her  side.  The  whispered 
"  Beatrice  !"  awakened  her  from  her  soft  day-dream,  and  she 
started,  with  a  blush  and  a  quickened  pulse,  when  she  saw 
that  her  solitude  was  only  disturbed  by  him  of  whom  she 
had  been  thinkinof. 

Silence  for  a  season :  oh,  who  will  say  that  such  silence 
is  voiceless  ?  Then  came  the  hurried  words  of  thanks  for 
kindness  given  and  received — last  of  all,  the  "  Farewell."  To 
speak  that  word  De  Lisle  had  now  sought  the  audience.  The 
morrow's  eve  was  to  see  him  far  away  from  Este,  and  all  it 
contained.  She  knew  it.  Still  she  made  no  answer.  List- 
lessly did  the  feir  hand  droop  as  it  held  the  volume  which 
had  been  unread  that  evening.  The  volume  dropped  from 
that  fair  hand.  De  Lisle  took  it  up,  saw  that  her  name  was 
written  in  it,  pressed  his  lips  to  that  dear  name  and  delicate 
writing,  and  put  the  volume  into  his  bosom.  Paler  grew  the 
lady's  cheek — softer  became  the  gentle  beauty  of  those  dark 
eyes,  at  once  liquid  and  lustrous.  And  then  in  flattering  words, 
De  Lisle  repeated  the  thanks  he  had  already  spoken  for 
all  the  courtesy  he  had  received.     Last  came  the  "  Farewell." 


BEATRICE 


d'este.  2*79 


"  You  will  think  of  Este — sometimes  ?"  said  the  Princess. 

"As  Adam  remembered  the  Eden  he  had  quitted,  and 
never  hoped  to  see  again." 

"  You  will  think  of  those  whom  you  have  known  in  Este  ? 
You  leave  many  friends  within  these  walls." 

"  It  is  impossible  that  I  can  forget.  The  time  I  have  so 
happily  passed  here  will  stand  green  in  my  memory,  amid 
the  wastes  of  future  days. 

"  Say,"  said  she,  with  a  gentle  smile,  "  that  you  will  somo 
day  return  hither,  if  it  be  only  for  an  hour,  to  let  me  know 
that  the  wounds  you  received  in  my  defence  have  not  seriously- 
injured  you  ?" 

"  Never !"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  dare  not  return.  I  look  upon 
Este  and  its  mistress  for  the  last  time." 

He  approached  her.  Not  to  crowned  Empress  could  he 
have  bent  a  lowlier  knee.  He  took  the  delicate  hand  which 
hung  by  her  side,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  Marble-cold  was 
the  touch.  He  looked  anxiously  upon  the  maiden's  face — it 
was  white  and  rigid  as  a  marble  bust.  She  had  fainted.  By 
degrees,  the  colour  returned,  and  those  coral  lips  and  sunny 
cheeks  once  again  flushed  up  with  life — the  eyes  resumed 
their  light — a  rosy  hue  sufiused  brow,  face,  and  neck — the 
little  hand,  now  warm  and  flexible,  made  an  effort  for  release. 
But,  in  that  brief  time,  De  Lisle  had  been  thrilled  with 
impulsive  hope — sudden,  but  strong.  He  still  knelt  by  her 
side.  The  hand  which  he  retained  in  his,  he  ventured  to 
press  —  the  pressure  was  not  reproved,  perhaps  it  was 
returned.  A  flood  of  tears  relieved  the  concentrated  passion 
of  the  maiden's  heart.  Her  head  reclined  upon  his  shoulder — 
she  raised  it  and  looked  into  his  eyes.  What  soft  confession 
in  that  look  1  Then — but  who  can  describe  the  indescribable  ? 
Jean  de  Lisle  did  not  quit  the  Castle  of  Este  on  the  morrow, 
as  he  had  proposed. 


280  TEESSIHAN. 

Butliow  answer  to  Kins:  Louis  for  the  default? 

Cardinal  Richelieu  sat  in  the  very  apartment  in  which, 
some  months  before,  he  had  reposed  on  "The  Day  of  the 
Dupes,"  when  Jean  de  Lisle  had  prevented  the  King's 
entrance.  Before  him  was  a  newly-arrived  letter.  The  King 
occupied  a  chair  opposite  to  his  Minister. 

The  Cardinal  cut  the  silken  floss  which  encircled  the  mis- 
sive, broke  the  seal,  and  silently  read  the  letter.  He  smiled. 
The  King  enquired,  "  Good  news,  my  Lord  ?" 

"  As  your  Majesty  may  take  it,"  answered  Richelieu. 
"  From  this  letter,  which  has  reached  me  within  the  hour,  I 
learn  that  my,  or  rather  your  Majesty's  protege,  De  Lisle,  has 
relieved  us  of  the  trouble  of  caring  further  for  his  fortunes. 
He  has  wooed  and  won  the  Princess  Beatrice  d'Este,  and 
acquaints  me  that  he  solicits,  and  awaits  your  royal  permis- 
sion to  wed  her.  If  I  know  him  well,  as  I  think  I  do,  he 
will  wed  her  whether  that  permission  be  given  or  withheld. 
Rome,  as  I  learn  from  other  despatches,  is  most  anxious  to 
retain  the  fief  of  Ferrara,  which  it  resumed  on  the  death  of 
Duke  Alfonzo  without  lesfitimate  male  heir,  Methinks  that 
by  permitting  Jean  de  Lisle  to  wed  the  daughter  of  Este, 
which  would  for  ever  annihilate  her  claims  to  the  sovereignty, 
we  may  please  the  Holy  See,  and,  by  representing  the  union 
as  of  our  own  suirGfestion,  with  a  view  to  thus  securing  the 
continued  possession  of  the  fief  to  the  Church,  we  may  gain 
as  an  equivalent  the  concession  we  have  so  long  sought  in  the 
matter  of  nominating  to  the  French  Sees." 

"  Be  it  so,"  answered  the  King.  "  But  what  will  the  newly- 
wedded  have  to  live  upon  ?" 

"The  Princess  Beatrice,"  said  Richelieu,  "has  the  rich 
dowry  of  her  mother,  equal  to  the  estates  of  any  Duke  in 
Franc*." 

*'  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  the  King :  "  but  we  must  not  send  a 


/ 


BEATRICE     d'eSTE.  281 

barren  message  to  De  Lisle.  "We  must  retain  him  as  a  sub- 
ject  of  France,  by  giving  him  some  rich  Huguenot's  confisca- 
tion. And  should  he  bring  his  bride  to  Paris,  assure  her  of  a 
favourable  reception." 

"  No  doubt,"  observed  the  Cardinal.  "  Your  Majesty  has 
a  paternal  regard  for  youth  and  beauty." 

The  King  smiled.  "  At  least,"  said  he,  "  the  Duke  must 
not  owe  all  to  himself.  We  owe  him  somethinsf.  Shall  we 
change  his  Count's  coronet  into  that  of  a  Marquis  ?" 

"  It  is  as  easy,"  answered  Richelieu,  "  to  make  him  a  Duke, 
and  his  bride  may  like  it." 

The  Duke  De  Lisle  never  returned  to  France.  He  and  his 
Beatrice  lived  and  died  at  Este.  They  were  happy  in  their 
lives,  and  it  is  recorded  that  their  death  took  place,  even  as  I 
can  imagine  they  desired,  on  one  and  the  samo  day. 


282  TRESSILIAN. 

"  That,"  remarked   Tressilian,  "  is  the   only  story  I  have 
ever  heard,  in  which  Richelieu  figures  without  being  repre- 
sented as  a  blood-thirsty,  unconscionable,  tiger-like  character. 
It  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  History  has  rendered  but 
scanty  justice  to  that  truly  great  man.     He  broke  down  the 
intolerance  and  ascendency  of  the  haughty  noblesse  of  France, 
and  raised  an  independent  monarchy  upon  their  fall.    What- 
ever his  ofiences — and  I  grant  that  he  was  unscrupulous,  look- 
ing at  the  end  without  being  particular  as  to  the  means — he 
attempted  to  build  up  a  great  monarchy,  and  he  succeeded. 
He  breathed  new  life  into  the  dry  bones  of  a  fading  realm, 
and  made  it,  while  he  survived,  the  arbiter  of  Europe.    If  he' 
did  not  free  the  People,  let  it  be  asked  were  they  fit  for  free- 
dom ?     Was  not  he  the  friend  of  the  Many,  the  enemy  of 
their  oppressors  ?     Before  his  watchful  vigilance  and  antici- 
pating genius  there  disappeared  successively,  as  each  arose, 
the  domestic  treason  and  the  foreign  antagonism.     We  hear 
much  of  his  cruelties — but  chiefly  because  he  struck  at  high 
places.  He  might,  unquestioned,  have  swept  thousands  of  serfs 
from  oflf  the  face  of  the  earth,  but  when  his  blow  reached 
the  haughty  noble,  who  would  at  once  have  coerced  the  Mon- 
arch and  oppressed  the  People,  he  was  accused  of  cruelty, 
when,  in  fact,  what  appeai'ed  the  caprice  or  the  wilfulness  of 
power,  was  but  a  strong  and  necessary  instance  of  prevention 
or  punishment.  In  his  time,  the  peasant  was  literally  nobody ; 
the  Noble  oppressed,  and  the  State  taxed  him — and  the  real 
strife  was  between  civil  contest  and  civil  government.   Thanks 
to  Ptichelieu,  the  latter  prevailed.     Power,  for  tlie  mere  sake 
of  power,  was  not  coveted  by  the  Cardinal-Minister:  his  aspi-- 
rations,  singularly  unselfish,  had  only  one  aim — the  elevation 
of  France  among  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  and  to  achieve 
this  he  felt  that  there  must  be  a  Government  strong  enough 
not  only  to  ptt  down,  but  by  its  undoubted  character  for 


CARDINAL     RICHELIEU.  283 

strength,  to  prevent  the  outbreaks  of  cinl  contest  which,  in 
preceding  reigns,  had  made  France  so  divided  against  itself. 
He  was  a  worthy  successor  of  Sully.  The  charge  of  ingrati- 
tude to  Mary  de  Medici,  the  Queen-Mother,  which  has  been  so 
strongly  and  so  often  brought  against  Richelieu,  appears 
exceedingly  ill-founded.  True,  she  had  originally  been  his 
patron,  but  he  adhered  to  her  cause,  against  his  own  interest, 
until  he  saw  that  her  adherence  to  the  political  system  of  the 
House  of  Hapsburg  would  be  ruinous  to  France.  To  elevate 
his  native  country  was  the  constant  aud  consistent  object  of 
his  life ;  and,  therefore,  not  from  ingratitude  to  the  Queen- 
Mother,  but  from  exceeding  love  for  France,  he  insisted  on  her 
banishment  to  Compeigne,  which  took  place,  as  we  have  just 
heard,  on  the  famous  '  Day  of  the  Dupes.' 

"  I  am  unwilling  to  interrupt  your  vindication,"  said  But- 
ler, "  and  admit  the  force  of  much  of  it,  but  I  cannot  concede 
that  Richelieu's  vices  are  defensible,  simply  on  the  score  of 
patriotism." 

"Vices  are  never  defensible  on  any  grounds,"  answered 
Tressilian.  "  But  my  argument  is — if  Richelieu  were  unscru- 
pulous, stern,  vindictive,  and  designing,  he  never  was  unneces- 
sarily so.  What  he  did  seems  to  have  been  forced  upon  him. 
Craft  was  employed  against  him — he  met  it  with  superior 
craft.  His  life  was  constantly  aimed  at — he  punished  the 
intended  assassins,  and  those  who  set  them  on.  In<renuitv  of 
every  kind  was  exercised  to  disgrace  him — he  met  it  with  a 
deeper  subtlety  than  was  employed  against  him.  If  be  pun- 
ished crime,  he  rewarded  merit ;  he  selected  the  best  men  to 
work  under  him  in  every  department  of  the  State  ;  he  under- 
took war,  not  from  the  lust  of  conquest,  but  the  necessity  of 
preserving  the  honour  and  independence  of  France  against  the 
encroachments  of  Austria ;  and  at  his  death  France  was  more 
prosperous  than  at  any  preceding  period  of  her  history.*' 


284  TRESSILIAN. 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Butler,  "  he  was  in  every  way  supe- 
rior to  Cardinal  Mazarin,  who  has  obtained  a  great  name  on 
the  very  slightest  grounds.  But  for  his  being  supported  by 
Anne  of  Austria,  whom  he  is  believed  to  have  secretly  mar- 
ried, he  would  never  have  been  able  to  retain  power  during 
the  minority  of  Louis  XIV.  There  was  something  bold  and 
independent  in  the  conduct  of  Richelieu,  but  Mazarin  loved 
to  work  in  the  dark,  and  was  as  treacherous  as  he  was  crafty. 
Richelieu  would  have  raised  money,  by  pledge,  on  his  Cardi- 
nal's hat,  if  it  were  required  for  the  exigencies  of  the  State ; 
but  Mazarin's  constant  endeavour  was  to  rob  the  public,  and 
hoard  for  his  own  gratification.  Richelieu  certainly  possessed 
greatness  of  character,  and  elevation  of  mind — Mazarin  was 
simply  a  sly,  mean  man,  unscrupulous  and  acute,  without  any 
redeeming  points.  He  cared  much  for  himself,  and  little  for 
France ;  which  he  governed  as  tyrannically  as  he  dared ;  while, 
if  Richelieu  were  the  Dictator  of  that  country,  he  stands  nobly 
out  as  its  Benefactor  also." 

"  Now,"  said  the  Artist,  that "  you  have  agreed  on  what  points 
you  are  to  disagree,  in  the  estimate  of  Richelieu's  character, 
perhaps  you  will  listen  to  another  story — a  tradition  which  I 
picked  up  in  Germany,  and  happen  to  recollect  now — whether 
opportunely  or  not,  I  leave  this  gracious  company  to 
determine." 


A     LEGKKD     OF     CHARLEMAGNK.  285 


A  lege:n'd  of  chaelemagke. 

Whenever  any  of  my  friends  next  traverse  Germany,  I 
would  recommend  them  to  visit  a  very  peculiar  and  (to  me, 
at  least)  a  very  interesting  part  of  the  country.  Pass  from 
Dover  to  Calais — from  Calais  to  Paris,  which  the  high  ambi- 
tion of  Napoleon  would  have  made  the  miniature  metropolis 
of  the  universe, — from  Paris  to  Strasburg,  where  you  must 
visit  the  Cathedral,  the  finest  Gothic  building  in  Europe,  the 
most  symmetrical  in  its  beautiful  harmony  of  proportion,  the 
most  graceful  and  elegant,  because  the  most  pure  and  simple 
in  its  architecture — from  Strasburg  to  Baden,  where  you  will 
find  an  almost  English  population — from  Baden  to  Heidelberg, 
whose  famous  tun  is  extant,  but  without  one  drop  of  Rhenish 
in  its  capacious  bulk — and  from  Heidelberg  to  Frankfort-on- 
the-Maine. 

This  is  a  long  route,  and  you  may  fancy  that  my  object  is 
to  give  you  an  itinerary.  You  will  find  that  Fancy,  for  the 
thousandth  time,  has  deceived  you.  I  have  only  brought  you 
to  the  scene  of  a  story  which  possesses  some  interest — if  I  do 
not  mar  it  in  the  tellinc:. 

Frankfort  lies  on  the  ri^ht  bank  of  the  river  Maine.  As 
you  intend  visiting  it,  I  shall  not  forestall  your  pleasure  by 
any  attempt  at  description.  I  hate  your  guide-books,  which 
tell  you  how  this  Avas  built,  and  how  that  was  burned — telling 
you  what  to  admire,  and  what  to  neglect — pointing  out 
beauties  and  defects  one  would  much  rather  discover  with  his 
own  eyes.     You  have  nothing  to  see,  when  all  is  anticipated 


286  -  TRE88ILIAN. 

by  these  impertinent  tell-tales.  You  leave  the  place  with  a 
growl  at  the  tedious  minuteness  of  the  guide-book,  and 
heartily  lament  having  ever  seen  it.  Ascertain  what  is  to  be 
seen,  look  at  it  with  your  own  eyes,  without  adopting  the  dog- 
matical opinions  of  any  one,  and  eschew  all  guide-books, 
until  you  have  quitted  the  locality.      That  is  my  advice. 

You  may  rest  at  Frankfort  for  a  few  days.  Perhaps  you 
will  examine  the  Cathedral,  with  its  beautiful,  but  unfinished 
tower, — or  you  may  lounge  into  the  Romer,  within  whose 
ancient  walls  the  German  Emperors  were  elected  and  crowned. 
The  senate  of  Frankfort  now  hold  their  sittings  in  the  Elec- 
tion Chamber,  and  there  is  sho'vvn  their  copy  of  the  far-famed 
Golden  Bull.  When  you  have  seen  these  things  (unless  you 
happen  to  arrive  before  the  Michaelmas  fair,  second  only  to 
that  of  Leipsic),  you  have  beheld  all  that  Frankfort  has  to 
boast  of,  can  leave  it,  without  regret,  to  accompany  me  up  the 
Maine  to  the  village  of  Selingenstadt  (The  Abode  of  Bliss), 
distant  about  a  dozen  miles. 

This  village  is  delightfully  situated,  close  by  the  bank  of 
the  river.  It  has  a  large  forest  in  its  rear,  an  outskirt  of  the 
Spessart ;  a  fine  champaign  on  the  opposite  bank  before  it. 
nigh  above  the  humble  dwellings  which  compose  this  little 
place,  stands  the  Red  Tower,  an  edifice  known  to  the  lovers 
of  romance. 

The  best  house  in  the  village  is  the  Auberge,  over  which, 
when  I  was  there,  some  years  ago,  a  host  presided,  whose 
capacious  size  and  rotund  figure,  involuntarily  reminded  me 
of  the  late  Daniel  Lambert,  of  obese  memory.  Herr  Von 
Cothen  was  a  genuine  German  ;  his  meerschaum  seldom  left 
his  lips,  except  when  the  wine-cup  (an  hereditary  goblet  of 
massy  silver,  won  by  one  of  his  ancestors  at  a  mighty  drink- 
ing-bout) was  raised  to  moisten  them.  The  man  seemed  to 
live  but  for  the  purpose  of  smoking,  sleeping,  and  drinking. 
Not  that  he  ever  was  known  to  be  what  is  called  "  disguised 


A     LEGEND     OF     CHARLEMAGNE.  287 

in  liquor," — ^but,  as  his  figure  resembled  an  animated  feather- 
bed, he  protested  that  such  a  huge  quantity  of  clay  required 
moisture,  and  assuredly  he  took  good  care  to  moisten  it. 

It  was  my  fortune  to  live  in  his  liouse  for  the  space  of  three 
months  and  I  can  safely  say  that,  with  one  exception,  I  never 
knew  him  deviate  from  his  triad  of  practices — the  aforesaid 
drinking,  smoking,  and  sleeping.  The  Herr  Von  Cothen,  had 
a  great  dislike  to  the  labour  of  conversation.  His  "puff" 
went  for  a  signal  of  assent,  and  a  nod  denoted  a  negative. 
Was  he  angry  ? — a  quick  succession  of  short  whiffs  told  his 
wrath.  Was  he  pleased  ? — the  tabacine  vapour  gracefully  rose 
in  curly  wreaths  round  his  head,  like  a  fog  rising  out  of  a  river. 

The  solitary  exception  to  his  wonted  taciturnity  was  in  this 
wise.  We  had  spent  a  pleasant  day  in  what  was  the  Spessart 
forest,  and  were  returning  home,  when  the  Red  Tower  met 
our  view.  We  were  weary,  and  threw  ourselves  on  the  mossy 
bank,  beneath  the  shade  of  a  mighty  tree,  where,  in  brief 
space,  both  of  us  fell  asleep.  I  was  awakened  by  the  voice  of 
my  companion.  I  kept  silence,  when  the  redoubted  Herr 
Von  Cothen  broke  into  an  unexpected  burst  of  eloquence, 
dilating  long  and  loudly  on  the  delights  of  the  feudal  days, 
when  the  lord  had  the  power  of  life  and  death,  within  his  ter- 
ritorial limits,  over  his  serfs  and  vassals.  He  spoke  well 
enough  for  a  German  host, — but  the  novelty  was  his  speaking 
at  all  I  True,  he  kept  his  eyes  closed  all  the  time,  and  there 
was  not  a  very  lucid  order  in  what  he  said,  but  this  was  par- 
donable in  one  to  w^hom  language  had  almost  fallen  into 
disuse.  Von  Cothen  lay  on  the  ground  at  listless  length, 
beneath  the  mighty  tree,  while  telling  a  tale  somewhat  to  the 
following  effect,  though,  as  his  diction  abounded  in  repeti- 
tions, I  take  leave  to  put  it  into  my  own  words. 


.^IP  TRESSILIAK. 

Some  centuries  ago,  there  was  an  Emperor  Kero, — no  rela- 
tion to  him  of  Rome, — ■who  came,  after  the  manner  of  the 
times,  to  celebrate  his  Christmas  holidays  at  Frankfort.  He 
was  fond  of  the  chase,  and  held  nearly  an  equal  afi'ection  for 
his  daughter,  a  maiden  over  whom  some  seventeen  summers 
had  lightly  flown.  She  was,  indeed,  if  there  be  truth  in 
legendary  report,  a  very  delightful,  beautiful,  and  innocent 
creature.  But  her  personal  charms  were  even  less  than  the 
purity  of  her  mind — the  soft  and  gentle  character  of  her 
feelings.  Born  in  a  cottage,  she  would  have  cheered  the 
peasant's  lot;  brought  up  in  an  Imperial  Court,  she  won  the 
earnest  admiration  of  one  sex,  and  scarcely  excited  the  envy 
of  the  other.  Such  beauty  of  person  and  goodness  of  heart, 
could  not  remain  unknown ;  and  (as  she  was  an  only 
daughter),  many  of  the  Princes  of  the  Empire  preferred 
their  claims  to  her  hand.  But  the  maiden's  heart  was  pre- 
engaged,  and  therefore  she  paid  little  attention  to  the  compli- 
ments of  her  many  princely  suitors, 

Clorinda,  thus  was  she  called,  had  set  her  aflfections  upon 
one  far  beneath  herself  in  rank.     Like 

"  The  King's  daugliter  of  Hongarie, 
Who  loved  a  squire  of  low  degree," 

the  Emperor  Nero's  daughter  had  given  her  heart's  first  love 
to  a  young  man,  estimable  in  every  point,  but  of  no  higher 
station  than  that  of  one  of  her  father's  huntsmen. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  the  secret  was  discovered,  but 
discovered  it  certainly  was.  The  Princess  was  placed  in  close 
confinement,  and  her  lover  would  have  been  summarily  and 
severely  dealt  with,  if  he  had  not  taken  flight.  Pursuit  was 
useless,  no  one  knowing  in  what  direction  he  had  fled.  To 
do  the  young  man  justice,  he  had  anticipated  the  discovery 
of  a  secret  dear  to  him  as  his  life,  and  had  taken  steps  accord- 


A     LEGEND      OF      CHARLEMAGNE.  289 

ingly.  Deep  in  the  hidden  haunts  of  the  Spessart,  he  had 
found  a  cave,  probably  the  former  residence  of  solitary 
sanctity,  and  had  made  the  best  provision  in  his  power  for 
that  decisive  step  which,  love  whispered,  the  Princess  would 
not  refuse  to  take,  for  his  sake — and  her  own  !  While  she,  in 
tears,  sat  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber,  her  Ludolf  was  busy 
in  making  prepai-ations  for  her  rescue. 

Whenever  Princesses  fall  in  love  with  their  father's  hunts- 
men, it  is  usual  for  Royalty  to  be  utterly  appalled.  Accord- 
ingly (as  has  already  been  intimated),  the  Emperor  went 
into  a  magnificent  passion,  and  gave  strict  orders  that  his 
daughter  should  be  confined  to  her  own  chamber.  One  morn- 
ing, however,  he  made  the  discovery,  just  a  few  hours  too 
late,  that  the  lady-bird  had  flown — like  Love,  when,  as  the 
song  tells  us, 

"  He  opened  the  window  and  flew  away." 

Albeit  an  Emperor,  the  poor  man  had  a  heart,  and  much 
lamented  his  daughter's  absence.  He  pined  after  her  so  bit- 
terly, that  not  an  unmarried  lady  of  the  court,  but  would  have 
been  glad  to  have  consoled  him — had  he  offered  her  his  hand. 
But,  much  to  the  disappointment  of  their  philanthropic  inten- 
tions, his  Majesty  could  not,  or  would  not,  see  how  to  atone 
for  the  loss  of  a  daup-hter,  bv  takins:  a  wife. 

The  Princess  and  her  Ludolf  (who  had  assisted  her  out  of 
durance  vile,)  lived  as  happily  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
as  if  there  never  had  been  such  things  as  Courts  and  Kin^s, 
Emperors  and  Principalities.  They  loved  one  another  ear- 
nestly ami  constantly  ;  nor — but  this  was  long  ago — had  they 
any  wish  to  return  to  the  crowds  of  society.  It  was  fortunate 
that  they  had  not,  for,  not  having  the  slightest  chance  or 
hope  of  forgiveness,  it  would  have  been  most  perilous  to 
have  attempted  it. 

13 


290  TEESSILIAN.  .^. 

Meantime,  the  loss  of  his  daughter  was  more  and  more  felt 
by  the  Emperor.  She  was  the  last  living  thing  round  which 
his  affections  were  entwined,  and  the  heart  of  the  father  and 
the  man  was  shaken  by  the  uncertainty  of  her  fate,  and  her 
absence  from  those  places  over  which  her  smiles  had  once 
thrown  a  sunny  radiance.  The  old  man's  grief  was  deep,  but 
he  said  little.  Pride  would  not  permit  him  to  yield  to  open 
lamentations,  but  in  secret  he  shed  many  a  tear.  His  house- 
hold gods  were  shivered  by  his  hearth. 

lie  quitted  Fi'ankfort,  and  many  years  elapsed  before  he 
returned  to  the  place  with  which  he  linked  so  many,  and 
such  sad  recollections.  He  had  laid  aside  his  usual  sports — 
the  huntsman's  spear  had  rarely  been  held  by  him  since  the 
day  on  which  he  had  lost  a  daughter :  and  it  was  with  some 
surprise  that  the  Court  heard  him  announce  that  he  would 
hold  a  hunting-match  on  the  morrow. 

Five  years  had  lessened  his  endurance  of  fatigue,  and  it 
•was  with  some  pleasure  that,  at  the  close  of  the  day,  when 
the  ardour  of  the  chase  had  separated  him  from  his  suite,  he 
found  himself  beside  a  rustic  hut,  at  the  door  of  which  two 
lovely  children  were  playing.  To  dismount  from  his  weary 
steed,  to  enter  the  cottage,  and  to  request  refreshment,  was 
but  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  immediate  preparations  were 
made  for  his  lepast. 

The  Emperor  had  fallen  upon  the  residence  of  his  long-lost 
and  still-loved  daughter.  Ludolf  was  a  successful  deer-hunter, 
and  the  fruits  of  the  earth  furnished  them  with  other  food. 
Besides,  as  Ludolf  had  learned  that  the  Emperor  had  quitted 
Frankfort  soon  after  the  flight  of  the  Princess,  he  felt  little 
hesitation  in  visiting  the  market  there,  to  exchange  deer  and 
other  skins  for  necessaries,  and  sometimes  for  a  few  of  the 
luxuries  to  which  his  Clorinda  had  been  accustomed,  all  of 
which  she  had  abandoned  for  him.     Frugal  in  their  habits 


A     LEGEND      OF     CHARLEMAGNE.  291 

and  tlieir   desires,  they  had  lived  happily,  without  a  wish 
for  a  change. 

The  graceful  girl  had  budded  into  the  glorious  maturity  of 
womanhood  ;  and,  farther  changed  by  her  rustic  attire,  the 
Emperor  did  not  recomiize  his  child.  She  knew  him  at  a 
single  glance,  and  then  came  quick-throbbing  memories  of 
the  past,  wild  hopes  of  the  future. 

The  sole  repast  which  they  could  provide  on  the  instant 
was  some  venison,  poached  by  Ludolf  in  the  Emperor's  own 
forest.  What  limit  is  there  to  woman's  wit,  when  aided  by 
woman's  afl'ection  ?  Clorinda  prepared  the  repast  with  her 
own  hands,  serving  up  a  dish  which  she  remembered  to  have 
been  a  favorite  with  her  father, — of  which,  too,  he  had  never 
eaten,  except  when  it  was  prepared  by  his  daughter's  hands. 
Scarcely  had  he  tasted  the  food  ere  his  tears  began  to  fall, 
bitterly  and  fast,  for  her  whose  memory  neither  time  could 
eifaco,  nor  anger  destroy,  and  he  eagerly  inquired  from  whom 
his  young  hostess  had  learned  to  prepare  that  dish  ? 

The  Princess  and  her  husband  fell  at  the  old  man's  feet. 
The  Emperor  was  still  a  father — his  kind  heart  remembered 
only  that  his  daughter  was  before  him.  All  was  forgotten 
and  forgiven.  He  named  the  place  Selingenstadt,  or  the 
Abode  of  Bliss  (in  double  commemoration  of  his  dinner 
and  his  daughter)  ;  he  carried  the  happy  family  with  him  to 
his  palace,  ate  his  favourite  meal  of  venison  as  often  as  he 
■wished,  to  his  dying  day,  and  built  the  Red  Tower,  as  a 
summer  residence  for  his  daughter.  The  lovers  (for  so  they 
had  miraculously  continued,  although  they  were  married) 
built  a  church  where  their  hut  had  stood,  and  when  they 
died,  their  ashes  rested  within  its  hallowed  walls. 


292  TRESSILIAN. 

Such  were  the  authentic  particulars  monologued  by  the 
Ilerr  Yon  Cothen.  The  next  day,  I  made  some  inquiries 
from  him  respecting  parts  of  the  story  which  seemed  obscure 
— particularly  with  a  view  to  supply  a  paragraph  to  the 
Alraanach  des  Gourmands,  as  to  the  nature  of  the  savoury 
mess  of  venison  which  softened  the  Emperor's  heart,  while  it 
filled  his  stomach — but  the  old  man  stoutly  and  sternly  denied 
having  uttered  a  syllable  on  the  subject,  appealing  to  his 
well-known  taciturnity  as  evidence  that  he  did  not  belong  to 
the  class  of  story-tellers — a  race  for  whom  he  avowed  a  most 
thorough  ooniempt.  He  admitted,  however,  that  I  had 
picked  up  the  popular  legend  in  some  way,  but  persisted  in 
denying  that  he  had  been  the  narrator !  Every  one  declared 
it  impossible  that  my  host  could  have  told  a  story  (in  any 
sense),  and  so  I  was  compelled  to  appear  satisfied  with  this 
contradiction,  although  it  by  no  means  gave  me  an  exalted 
opinion  of  the  Ilerr  Von  Cothen's  veracity. 

Some  months  afterwards,  as  I  was  looking  at  Titian's 
"Assumption  of  the  Virgin,"  in  the  Dresden  Gallery,  I  was 
accosted  by  Augustus  Saalfield,  whom  I  had  known  at 
Gottingen.  We  sj^ent  the  day  together,  and  I  told  him, 
among  other  things,  the  mistake  (to  call  it  by  a  light  name) 
into  which  Von  Cothen  had  fallen,  respecting  the  narration 
of  this  legend.  Saalfield  smiled,  and  dissipated  my  wonder 
by  the  information  that,  to  his  certain  knowledge,  the  worthy 
host  of  the  Abode  of  Bliss,  was  a  somnambulist,  and  an 
excellent  story-teller — in  his  sleep  ! 

1  learned,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  legend  in  question 
took  its  oriofin  from  the  fact  that  Selincrenstadt  witnessed  the 
loves,  and  still  preserves  the  mortal  remains  of  Eginhard  and 
Emma,  the  secretary  and  daughter  of  Charlemagne. 

Tradition  made  the  mistake  of  changing  a  few  names  and 
adding  a  few  details ;  thus  for  Charlemagne,  we  have  Nero, 


A     LEGEND      OF      CHARLEMAGNE.  293 

and  Liidolf  and  Clorinda  stand  muster  for  Eginhard  and 
Emma.  The  Red  Tower  (now  sadly  dilapidated)  was  the 
residence  of  the  lovers,  after  Charlemagne  saved  his  daughter's 
reputation  by  giviog  her  hand  to  his  secretary.  Eginhard 
built  a  church  upon  the  spot,  and  his  bones  and  those  of  his 
beloved,  repose  beneath  its  roof,  in  a  massy  antique  sarco- 
phagus. Thus  it  is,  that  in  all  cases  where  Fact  is  viewed 
throuo-h  the  coloured  lens  of  Tradition,  the  narrative  takes 
a  shape  somewliat  remotely  resembling  the  original,  but  it  is 
difficult  to  determine  how  much  is  fiction,  and  how  much  the 
reverse. 


294  TRESSILIAN. 

" The  idea,"  said  Butler,  "of  your  calling  that  story,  'A 
Legend  of  Charlemagne,'  has  been  suggested,  no  doubt,  by 
the  Ulcus  a  non  lucendo  of  our  school-boy  days — inasmuch 
as  the  great  Emperor  is  not  the  hero.  Nevertheless,  what's 
in  a  name? — and,  believe  me,  we  are  all  obliged  to  you  for 
introducing  us  to  the  llerr  Von  Cothen,  worthy  resident  in 
the  Abode  of  Bliss.  I  have  visited  that  village  more  than 
once,  but  was  never  so  fortunate  as  to  have  met  that 
individual." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Crayon,  smiling;  "perhaps  he  is 
one  of  the  '  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,'  who  decline  making 
their  appearance  to  all  who  call  them  ?" 

"Seriously,  however,"  remarked  Tressilian,  "is  it  not 
Avonderful,  when  we  consider  to  what  uttermost  parts  of  the 
woi-ld  story-tellers  have  gone  for  materiel  that  so  few  have 
brouirht  Charlemairne  before  us  ?  And  vet  his  adventures 
have  filled  many  of  the  pages  of  History,  and  he  may  be 
taken,  however  considered,  as  one  of  the  greatest  monarchs 
and  conquerors  the  world  has  seen." 

"  The  greatness  of  the  man's  character,"  answered  Crayon, 
"  may  have  caused  the  difficulty — and  yet,  a  like  cause  has  not 
preserved  Napoleon  from  being  served  up  as  the  hero  of 
romantic  fiction." 

"I  have  often  thought,"  said  Butler,  "how  odd  it  is  that 
the  most  obvious  sources  of  romance  have  been  carefully 
avoided  by  us  who  write.  Alexander,  Caesar,  Mahomet,  and 
Alfred  have  been  left  exclusively  to  the  dramatists,  at  home 
and  abroad.  Charlemagne,  as  Sir  Julian  remarks,  has  been 
quite  neglected.  Another,  who  figures,  it  is  true,  in  Eastern 
story  has  been  almost  wholly  overlooked  by  European 
writers.  It  was  only  the  other  day,  as  I  was  glancing  over 
D'Herbelot,  that  I  found  occasion  to  wonder  at  our  neglect 
of  the  mairnificent  Haroun  al  Raschid.     One  incident  in  Ms 


BAROUK      AL     RASCHID.  295 

reign  struck  me  as  peculiarly  capable  of  being  '  improved ' 
by  the  romancist.  Ills  favourite  Vizier  was  a  young  man 
named  Giafar  al  Barmeki — his  favourite  sister  was  the  beau- 
tiful Abassa.  Tlie  customs  of  the  East  forbade  the  Vizier's 
admission  into  the  domestic  privacy  of  the  Caliph,  But,  to 
effect  this,  and  thus  obt  uri  the  constant  companionship  of  a 
friend  so  dearly  loved,  Haroun  resolved  that  Giafar  should 
espouse  Abassa,  and  thus,  as  brother-in-law,  obtain  unre- 
stricted admission  to  the  harem  at  all  times.  Fearful,  how- 
ever, that  by  the  children  of  such  an  union,  the  succession  of 
his  own  sons  might  eventually  be  disturbed,  and  the  sceptre 
pass  into  the  hands  of  the  Barmecides,  the  determination 
was  formed  by  Haroun  to  stipulate  that  this  marriage  should 
be  one  of  name  and  not  of  fact — and  that  Giafar  should  not 
aspire  to  any  particular  intimacy  with  the  Princess  Abassa, 
although  he  was  permitted  to  fee  her  when  he  pleased.  The 
lady  was  beautiful,  both  were  young,  and  the  unrestricted 
companionship  into  which  they  were  thrown,  led  to  a  result 
which  might  have  been  anticipated,  although,  on  Giafar's 
part,  there  was  a  lengthened  struggle  between  duty  and 
passion.  At  length,  the  Caliph  became  aware  of  the  violation 
of  the  unnatural  compact  which  he  had  made  with  Giafar. 
With  a  sternness  of  purpose,  which  embittered  the  rest  of 
his  life,  Haroun — forfeiting  the  surname  of  The  Just  (al 
Raschid),  doomed  Giafar  to  death,  banished  the  Barmecides 
to  the  remotest  province  of  his  empire,  forbade,  on  pain  of 
death,  that  any  person  should  make  mention  of  this  unfortu- 
nate family,  and  exiled  his  sister  Abassa  to  a  distant  part  of 
his  dominions,  where  she  died,  after  a  short  struggle  with 
povertv.  Thus,  in  one  fell  swoop,  was  ruin  brought  upon 
Giafar  al  Barmeki  and  his  princely  race.  Long  did  tho 
Arabians  retain  a  grateful  recollection  of  that  family.  Long 
after  the   doom   had   fallen  heavily   upon  them,   an   aged 


296  ■  T  R  E  S  S  I  L  I  A  N  . 

follower,  named  Mondier,  had  the  boldness  to  place  himself, 
day  after  da}^,  on  the  ruins  of  one  of  their  demolished 
dwellings,  and  there  recite  their  noble  actions,  eulogizing 
their  generosity,  and  lamenting  their  decay.  This  contumacy 
was  reported  to  the  Caliph,  who  condemned  him  to  death. 
Mondier  requested  that,  before  the  sentence  was  executed,  he 
should  be  brought  into  Ilaroun's  presence.  This  was  granted, 
and,  at  some  length,  and  with  much  eloquence,  he  repeated 
to  the  Caliph  the  numerous  and  heavy  obligations  which  the 
Barmecides  had  conferred  upon  him.  Moved  by  his  words, 
the  Caliph  not  only  pardoned  him,  but  presented  him  with 
a  golden  vase  which  stood  upon  a  table  in  the  audience 
chamber.  Receiving  this  from  Ilaroun's  own  hands,  and 
prostrating  himself,  according  to  the  eastern  custom,  the  old 
man  exclaimed,  '  Behold  yet  another  favour  which  I  receive 
at  the  hands  of  the  Barmecides,'  This  saying  of  Mondier, 
says  D'Herbelot,  has  since  passed  into  a  proverb  throughout 
Asia.*  I  am  much  mistaken,  if  these  incidents,  considered 
with  relation  to  the  time,  the  country,  and  the  sovereign,  do 
not  contain  sufficient  for  the  pen  of  Genius  to  weave  into  a 
very  brilliant  romance," 

"  Indeed  they  do,"  said  Crayon,  "  but  where  is  the  Magician 
who  can  work  the  miracle  now  ?  We  have  wandered  from 
Charlemagne  to  his  contemporary  Ilaroun,  and  I  return  to 
him  to  mention  an  incident  which  the  Painter,  as  well  as  the 
Author,  might  take  up  and  illustrate  with  force  and  effect. — 
Charlemagne  died  in  814 — exactly  a  thousand  years  before 
his  successor.  Napoleon,  was  first  precipitated  from  the  Em- 
pire. The  Monk  of  Angouleme,  relates  that  when  Charle- 
magne was  inhumed,  in  a  vault  beneath  the  Church  of  Aix- 
la-Chapelle,  which  he  had  built,  he  was  left  seated  in  a  Chair 

*  Leigh  Hunt  has  treated  this  subject  with  the  delicate  fancy  and  tact  of  a  true 
poet. 


CHAKLEMAGNE   AND   NAPOLEON.     297 

of  State,  with  an  imperial  diadem  upon  his  head,  imperial 
robes  covering  his  body,  a  jewelled  sceptre  in  his  left  hand, 
and  his  right  upon  the  pommel  of  his  good  sword  Joyeuse, 
— as  renowned  as  Uaroun's  Samsamah  was  in  the  East,  Or- 
lando's Durlinara,  the  Cid's  Tizona,  or  Arthur's  famed  £x- 
calibur — and  in  his  lap  the  simple  scrip,  which  he  had  worn 
in  his  journeyings  to  Rome.  It  strikes  me  that  pen  or  pencil 
might  take  such  an  incident  as  the  discovery  of  the  mortal 
remains  of  Charlemagne,  thus  adorned  with  the  trappings  of 
Empire,  and  produce  something,  at  once  truthful,  eff'ectivo 
picturesque,  '  which  the  world  would  not  willingly  let  die.' " 

Particularly,  "  said  the  Major,  "  if  the  discovery  of  the 
dead  Emperor  took  place  a  thousand  years  after,  in  the  presence 
of  a  living  one.  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  having  heard 
that  Naj)oleon  was  present  when  the  vault  was  opened  and  the 
truth  of  the  tradition  proven.  I  am  confident,  at  any  rate, 
that  Napoleon  certainly  did  visit  that  vault.  There  he  might 
reflect  on  the  uncertainty  of  mortal  things,  though,  at  that 
time,  his  power  appeared  as  if  it  rested  upon  a  foundation 
secure  as  that  upon  which  Charlemagne  had  founded  his.  Tho 
prison-rock  of  St.  Helena  did  not  then  loom  in  the  distance.  I 
admit,  that  pen  or  pencil  might  advantageously  seize  such  an 
incident  as  this — though,  as  the  action  was  momentary,  it 
appears  as  if  the  Painter  could  more  appropriately  claim  it  as 
within  his  province." 

"  Is  it  too  late  for  one  more  story  ?"  asked  Lady  Morton,  or 
shall  we  now  arranofe  for  our  excursion  to-morrow  ?  So  much 
to  be  seen,  and  so  little  time  to  see  it  in  ? — we  must  live  iu 
hope  of  a  future  and  a  longer  visit  to  Matlock." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Tressilian,  with  a  significant  look, 
"  that  Matlock  is  in  considerable  request  with  the  newly-wed- 
ded during  the  first  weeks  of  matrimony,  so  perhaps  your 
Ladyship's  next  visit  may  not  be  so  very  distant." 

13* 


298  TRESSILIAN. 

Her  Ladyship  blushed,  but  unwilling  to  provoke,  by  reply- 
ing to  the  badinage  of  Sir  Julian,  immediately  diverged  into 
a  discussion,  with  the  Major  and  myself,  on  the  arrangements 
of  our  little  excursion  on  the  morrow. 


LOVE      AND     MOONLIGHT.  299 


LOYE  AKD  MOONLIGHT. 

Every  one  wlio  has  been  at  Matlock,  in  suitable  weather, 
must  recollect  that  an  excursion  upon  the  Derwent,  at  that 
sweet  time  which  the  Americans  call  sun-dow7i,  is  often  and 
pleasantly  indulged  in.  Less  frequent,  but  sometimes  even 
more  pleasant  (though  that  depends  very  much  on  compan- 
ionship, )  is  this  river  nautilism  on  a  moon-lit  night.  Some- 
times, the  aid  of  a  band  of  music  is  called  in,  and  very 
beautiful  is  the  effect  produced  by  the  concord  of  sweet 
sounds,  floating  across  the  water — breaking,  as  it  were, 
against  the  nigged  rocks,  and  strangely  reverberating  through 
that  charmed  valley.  And  when,  as  the  oars  gently  dash 
through  the  waters,  on  which  the  moonbeams  throw  a  long 
silvery  line  of  light,  a  sweet  voice  breaks  upon  the  stillness 
— now  alone,  and  now  in  harmonious  concert  with  another 
voice — the  effect  is  more  delightful  still. 

It  happened,  on  this  very  evening,  that  the  moon  was  shin- 
ing "  bright  as  day,"  and  that  I,  having  previous  knowledge 
of  Matlock,  had  mentioned  how  pleasant  I  had  found  it  to  en- 
joy an  hour  on  the  water.  This  led  to  a  doubt  as  to  the 
propriety  of  such  an  adventure,  a  laugh  at  its  romance,  and 
an  enquiry  whether,  so  late  (it  was  ten  o'clock,  a  terribly  dis- 
sipated hour  for  quiet  Matlock,)  a  boat  could  be  procured. — 
There  was  as  little  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  boat,  as  in  per- 
suading Lady  Morton  to  make  one  of  the  improvised  aquatic 
party.     When  we  came  to  the  important  point  of  embarka- 


300  TRESSILIAN. 

tion,  however,  the  Major  and  myself  were  the  only  gentlemen 
who  adhered  to  our  purpose.  The  lady  confided  herself  to 
our  care — Lady  Tressilian  had  confessed  to  a  dread  of  cold, 
and  a  desire  to  strengthen  herself,  by  rest,  for  our  morrow's 
tour — and  as  the  Major  either  did  not  know  how  to  row,  or 
pretended  that  he  did  not,  upon  me  devolved  the  duty  of  act- 
ing as  oarsman,  a  task  which  I  happily  performed  without 
the  slightest  accident. 

Like  Deaf  Stapleton,  in  "Jacob  Faithful,"  I  had  the  dis- 
cretion   not  to   notice,    or    not   seem    notice,    what   passed 
during  the  tete-a-tete.     All  I  can  say  is  that  the  lady  and  the 
gentleman  evidently  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other — 
that,  in  a  few  minutes,  they  appeared  quite  unconscious  of 
the  presence  of  a  third  person,  though  I  kept  rowing  up  and 
down  the  river  for  nearlv  two  mortal  hours — that  the  gentle- 
man  must  have  considered  the  lady  in  some  eminent  peril, 
for,  after  a  little  time,  he  put  his  arm  around  her  waist,  to  prevent 
her  falling  out  of  the  boat,  no  doubt — that,  to  reward  him 
for  this  considerate  attention,  the  lady  could  not  do  less  than 
allow  her  little  hand  to  repose  in  his — that  there  was  a  world 
of  broken  whispers  between  them — that,  when  I  told  them  it 
w^as  after  midnio-ht,  thev  insisted  that  half  an  hour  had  not 
elapsed  since  we  came  upon  the  water, — that  when  I  assured 
them  the  hour  was  much  later  than  they  believed,  the  lady 
appealed  to  her  watch,  and  confusedly  admitted  that  the  time 
had  glided  on  she  knew  not  how — that,  as  the  moonlight  fell 
upon  the  watch,  I  could  see  that,  really  and  truly,  it  was  the 
very  watch  which  the  Major  had  exhibited  as  that  which  was 
only  to  pass  from  him  to  his  future  wife — and  that,  when   we 
got  home,  after  I  had  whispered  that  I  hoped  I  might  ofier 
him  my  congratulations,  the  Major  warmly  grasped  my  hand, 
and  said,  "  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  the  happiest  man  on  earth." 

From  all  which,  it  is  my  confidential  belief  (but  I  do  not 


LOVE      AND      MOONLIGHT.  301 

want  all  the  world  to  know  it)  that  if  reading  D'HerLelot  ba 
like  lookinof  over  the  back  of  a  camel,  tete-a-tete  on  the  Der- 
went,  by  moonlight,  is  equivalent  to  declaration  and  accept- 
ance. I  beg  to  add  that  any  other  resjjectable  river  will  do 
as  well  as  the  Derwent  for  this  purpose,  provided  the  parties 
concerned  be  "  to  the  fore,"  and  consenting  parties.  In  mat- 
ters of  the  heart,  when  the  proceedings  extend  to  arms  around 
waists,  and  so  on,  the  locality  is  of  no  possible  importance. 

The  next  day  was  dedicated  to  an  excursion  to  South 
"Wingfield  and  Hardwick,  in  which  our  adventures  may  thus 
be  related. 


N 

302  TRESSILIAN. 


AN  EXCUESIOK. 

It  is  a  matter  for  grave  deliberation,  whether  May — the 
most  radiant  of  all  the  months — properly  belongs  to  our 
Spring  or  Summer.  It  certainly  is  one  of  the  Summer 
months  in  the  South  of  England,  but  as  you  advance  north- 
ward, strong  reasons  will  frequently  present  themselves  to 
create  and  foster  the  belief,  that  genial  May,  with  her  coronal 
of  flowers  and  leaves,  is  one  of  the  subjects  of  capricious 
Spring.  In  Scotland,  beyond  all  doubt,  May  occupies  the  same 
place,  relative  to  the  Seasons,  as  April  does  in  England. 

Ilowever  the  month  may  be  claimed — and  perhaps,  as  one 
of  the  gentler  sex,  she  may  sometimes  be  allowed  to  act 
capriciously,  and  flirt  with  the  freshness  of  Spring,  and  the 
sunshine  of  Summer — many  a  lover  of  Nature  will  exclaim, 
with  the  Poet  of  all  circles  and  the  idol  of  his  own, 

"Of  all  the  fair  months,  that  round  the  sun 
In  light,  linked  dance  tlieir  circles  run, 
Sweet  May,  shine  thou  for  me." 

Our  party  now  entered  upon  the  last  day  of  May,  and 
many  besides  myself  looked  out  early  on  that  morning,  to  see 
whether  we  were  to  have  favourable  weather  for  the  rather 
extended  journey,  we  had  determined  to  take — that  is,  rela- 
tively speaking,  for  a  pleasure-trip  of  twelve  or  fifteen  miles 
and  back,  over  country  roads,  is  something  to  accomplish  at 
Matlock. 


A      MAT     MORNING.  303 

As  I  saw  the  sky  with  but  a  few  white  clouds  scudding 
across  its  azure — the  leaves  and  the  grass  diamonded  with 
myriads  of  drops,  left  by  the  sliglit  showers  which  had  fallen 
after  three  o'clock,  when  the  moon  had  set,  and  felt  the  fresh 
breeze  from  the  hills,  in  pleasant  contrast  wiih  the  oppressive 
warmth  of  the  previous  day,  I  caught  myself  involuntarily 
repeating,  from  Leigh  Hunt, 

"  The  sun  is  up,  and  'tU  a  mom  of  May." 

Then,  too,  I  thought  how  exquisitely  true  to  what  I  saw 
spread  before  me,  was  the  continuation, 

"  A  morn,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seon, 
Last  of  the  Spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green ; 
For  a  warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  niglit. 
Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light." 

We  contrived  to  get  through  an  early  breakfast,  fol- 
lowed by 

"  Hot  haste,  and  hurrying  to  and  firo," 

before  we  started.  Our  projected  route  included  South  "Wing- 
field,  which  has  been,  and  Hardwick,  which  yet  is,  a  manor- 
house  of  the  olden  time. 

There  is  no  use  in  recapitulating  the  number  of  vehicles,  nor 
their  variety,  nor  the  disposition  of  those  who  occupied  them. 
I  noticed  that,  with  the  tact  of  an  old  soldier,  the  Major  had 
contrived  to  appropriate  to  hiinself  the  only  gig — name  unro- 
mantic ! — which  had  been  detached  for  our  use,  and  that  it 
did  not  require  very  much  pressing  to  persuade  Lady  Morton 
to  entrust  herself  in  it  to  his  care,  on  the  assurance  that  he 
was  an  accomplished  Jeliu.  Thus,  everything  being  satisfac- 
torily arranged,  and  every  body  suitably  accommodated,  our 
cavalcade  set  forth. 


304  TRESSILIAX. 

At  South  Wingfield  Manor  House  was  to  be  our  first  rest- 
ing place.  We  had  the  river  Derwent  running  by  us  during 
a  portion  of  the  ride — sparkling  in  ripples  as  it  rapidly  rushed 
on  through  a  fair  district,  fertile,  well-wooded,  and  picturesque. 
Then,  leaving  it,  we  ascended  the  hill  to  Holloway,  and,  from 
the  high  road  across  the  cliff  which  overhangs  that  village, 
had  a  wide  and  wild  range  of  beautiful  landscape.  On,  thence, 
to  Crich,  the  vicinity  of  which  is  literally  crowded  with  lead- 
mines  (some  of  which  are  believed  to  be  the  richest  in  Europe) 
alternated  with  quarries  of  limestone  of  great  extent.  Every 
foot  of  the  road,  and  indeed  the  same  may  be  said  of  most 
roads  about  Matlock,  sparkled  in  the  sunshine,  as  if  strewed 
with  gems,  the  broken  spar  and  lustrous  ore  leaving  traces  all 
around.  On,  a  little  farther,  and  we  reached  Crich  Cliff. 
Then,  alighting,  we  looked  around  us  and  saw  such  scenery 
as  would  have  charmed  a  Painter.  Far-stretching  below  was 
the  fertile  valley  of  the  Derwent — and,  after  glancing  over 
the  ti'act  through  which  it  ran  (with  its  wooded  hills  and 
bare  rocks,  green  meadow-land  and  arable,  glorious  with  the 
yet  brighter  green  of  what  promised  to  be  a  plenteous  har- 
vest, straggling  villages,  and  the  trim  grounds  and  pleasant 
habitations -of  country  gentlemen,)  the  eye  rested,  at  last,  on 
the  fair  borough  of  Derby,  through  which  the  Derwent  glides, 
and  in  which,  far  over  all,  towered  the  tall  square  turret  of 
All  Saints'  Church.  And  then,  as  not  satisfied  even  with  this 
view,  we  adventured  the  ascent  of  The  Stand,  a  tower  on  the 
very  summit  of  Crich  Cliff,  from  which  it  is  said  that  five 
counties  may  be  seen — some  of  the  party  even  professed  to 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lincoln  Cathedral.  They  saw  it, 
perhaps,  in  their  mind's  eye,  Iloratio — even  as,  at  a  later  day, 
I  persuaded  myself  that,  from  the  top  of  Loch-na-gar,  in  Aber- 
deenshire, I  had  beheld  the  German  Ocean  on  one  side,  and 


THE      OLD      MANOR-HOUSE.  305 

the  Atlantic  on  the  other.  What  others  have  beheld,  why 
should  we  not  have  seen  ? 

Down,  now,  by  a  gentle  descent  to  a  more  level  district — 
down  thi'oug-h  the  pleasant  green  lanes  which  are  so  peculiar 
to  England,  that  an  American  once  told  me,  that  until  he 
had  winded  his  way  through  them,  he  never  had  fully  real- 
ized the  essential  difference  between  the  old  country  and  that 
great  land  wliich  he  called  his  own,  far  beyond  the  "Western 
main.  Rapidly  did  we  press  forward,  until,  we  saw,  crowning 
the  summit  of  the  hill  in  front,  the  ruins  of  what  was  once  a 
stately  pile,  remembered  in  history  too,  as  one  of  the  many 
places  in  which  Mary  of  Scotland — at  once  so  fair  and  so 
unfortunate — had  been  imprisoned. 

The  Manor-House  of  South  Wingfield  was  built  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  fifteenth  century.  After  the  fashion  of  the  time — 
in  accordance  with  its  necessities,  also,  it  may  be — it  was  a 
castellated  strono-hold.  Durino;  the  wars  between  Charles 
Stuart  and  his  Pafliaraent,  it  was  dismantled.  Neglect  sat 
within  its  walls  henceforth — the  property  came  into  litigation 
and  remained  under  it  for  a  long  time, — at  last,  the  party  to 
whom  "  the  law's  delay  "  had  awarded  it,  thought  it  better  to 
erect  a  new  dwelling,  a  little  lower  down,  than  attempt  to 
render  the  old  place  habitable.  For  this  purpose  the  most 
beautiful  portions  of  the  ancient  Manor-House  were  taken 
away,  and  worked  into  the  new  edifice — a  desecration  which 
reminds  us  of  the  sculptures  of  the  Parthenon  being  pounded 
and  burnt  to  make  lime  for  the  use  of  the  Turks. 

Sufficient  remains  to  show  what  Wing-field  Manor  House 
has  been — a  building  intermediate,  in  its  appearance  and  use, 
between  the  garrisoned  castles  of  a  remoter  time,  and  the 
domestic  dwellings  of  a  later  period.  We  found  the  place 
in  a  sad  state  of  ruin — but  not  the  less  impressive  on  account 


306  TRESSILIAN. 

of  that  decay.  The  path  to  one  of  its  entrances  is  through  a 
sort  of  avenue  of  vew  trees — themselves  venerable  in  their 
gloomy  antiquity.  A  farmer  lives  in  one  pai't  of  the  ruins, 
which  has  been  roughly  fitted  up  for  his  accommodation,  and 
what  was  the  piiiicipal  of  two  courts  is  now  a  farm  yard. 
What  was  a  great  hall  may  be  seen — but  it  is  roofless. 
Beneath  it  is  a  crypt,  with  a  groined  roof,  resting  upon  pillars. 
It  is  dimly  lighted,  and,  at  times,  the  efiects  of  light  and  shade 
are  such  as  would  have  been  after  Rembrandt's  own  heart. 
What  the  purpose  of  this  crypt  or  vault  may  have  been,  no 
one  now  can  tell ;  but  it  was  built  with  evident  care  and  skill,  and 
cost  was  not  spared.  There  are  heraldic  shields,  curiously 
carved,  on  the  centres  of  the  groins  of  the  arches,  and  these, 
and  all  the  other  carvings,  continue  to  show  clear,  deep,  and 
sharp,  though  executed  centuries  ago. 

We  must  not  lino-er  too  lona:  at  Winfffield.  On — on  to 
Hardwick  Uall,  leaving  Chesterfield,  with  its  beautiful  church 
and  crooked  steeple,  far  on  the  left. 

IIow  bold  and  beautiful  the  view  as  the  old  Hall  is  neared. 
There  rises  a  hill  before  you,  on  the  brow  of  which  two  edi- 
fices are  seen  standing  clear  and  distinct,  by  the  relief  of  ancient 
and  thick  woods,  which  stretch  far  beyond  in  the  back  giound, 
and  on  both  sides.  As  you  close  upon  it,  the  more  ancient 
edifice,  thickly  covered  with  ivy,  which  seems  to  bind  the 
grey  walls  together,  is  perceived  to  be  a  ruin.  Immediately 
adjacent  is  another  stately  building,  quaint  in  aspect,  and 
peculiar  in  character;  this  is  Hardwick  Hall,  built  by  the 
celebrated  Countess  of  Shrewsbury  (Bess  of  Hardwick), 
wife  of  many  husbands,  who  brought  the  estate  into  the  pos- 
session of  the  Cavendish  family.  It  is  built  on  what  has 
been  well  described  as  the  quaintest  form  of  Elizabethan 
architecture,  and  on  the  curiously  carved  battlements  of 
its  towers  are   traceries,  which,  at  a  distance,  appear   like 


HARDWICK     HALL.  307 

ornamental  arabesques,  but,  on  nearer  view,  shew  as  the  many 
times  repeated  initials  [E.  S.]  of  the  lady  who  built  the  Hall 
and  was  constantly  engaged  with  such  stone  and  mortar  occu- 
pation, from  its  having  been  foretold  that,  while  so  employed, 
she  need  not  fear  death.  Oddly  enough,  as  the  story  runs, 
she  actually  did  die  during  a  hard  frost,  when  the  masons 
could  not  work.  She  built  three  stately  mansions — Chats- 
worth,  Hardwick,  and  Oldcotes — in  her  native  county  of 
Derby. 

Precisely  as  Hardwick  Hall  was  left  at  her  death,  in  1607, 
does  it  remain  now.  The  Duke  of  Devonshire,  its  owner,  has 
been  careful  to  direct  that  it  shall  so  be  kept  up.  The  old 
interior  fittings  remain, — there  is  ancient  furniture,  though  it 
may  not  be  the  very  furniture  used  by  "  Bess  of  Hardwick," — 
no  lack  of  arras,  or  hangings  of  tapestry,  and  the  walls  plen- 
tifully adorned  with  ancient  portraits.  It  is  a  place  to  be 
seen  rather  than  rapidly  described.  Among  its  popular  asso- 
ciations, is  that  which  assumes  it  to  have  been  one  of  the 
prison  dwellings  of  Mary  Stuart.  However,  her  abode  was  in 
the  older  Hall,  as  the  edifice  erected  by  the  Countess  of 
Shrewsbury  was  not  built  until  many  years  after  Mary's  death. 
Still,  Hardwick  is  crowded  with  memories  of  the  fair  captive, 
and  one  of  the  apartments,  which  bears  her  name,  contains 
the  furniture  of  the  chambers  which  she  occupied  in  the 
ruined  Hall,  including  some  velvet  hangings,  believed  to  have 
been  eml)roidered  by  herself.  In  the  Picture  Gallery,  where 
the  tapesti'ied  walls  are  enriched  with  the  portraits  of  many 
whose  names  belong  to  the  most  stirring  periods  of  our  Eng- 
lish story,  are  the  likenesses  of  Mary  Stuart  and  her  relentless 
rival,  Elizabeth.  There,  also,  hangs  the  portrait  of  Lady  Jane 
Grey,  the  monarch-vi(;tim  to  another  Queen.  Not  the  least 
interesting  among  these  portraits  are  two  which  represent 
Bess  of  Hardwick, — one  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  the  other 


308  TRESSILIAN. 

when  she  had  fallen  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  In  every 
room  which  we  entered,  the  initials  E.  S.  were  repeated,  sur- 
mounted with  the  coronet  of  the  Countess,  which  she  had 
doubly  the  right  to  exhibit. 

A  louno-e  throuofh  the  Park,  amid  its  oaks  of  immense 
girth  and  yews  of  great  size,  brought  us  back,  at  length,  to 
the  front  of  the  mansion.  There,  of  course,  somebody  men- 
tioned the  difficulty,  when  blindfolded,  of  walking  to  the  door, 
from  the  crate,  without  deviatinof  from  the  broad  flagged  wav  : 
and  then,  as  a  matter  of  course,  also,  all  of  us  were  presently 
making  the  experiment,  and  with  such  indifferent  success  that, 
when  any  one  happened  to  perform  the  feat,  a  doubt  was  loudly 
expressed  whether  he  had  not  had  a  surreptitious  glance  at 
the  path,  from  beneath  the  kerchief  which  covered  his  eyes. 

Thence,  at  last  and  with  reluctance,  we  quitted  Hardwick, 
where  a  week  might  be  pleasantly  and  advantageously  spent 
by  any  one,  but  particularly  by  an  artist.  As  I  looked  around, 
in  the  midst  of  the  greenery  of  the  Park,  very  appropriately 
mright  I  have  quoted  the  lines,  from  an  obscure  poet, 

"  In  silent  tremor,  here  I  stand  afraid, 
Half  joyed  at  Nature's  grandeur,  half  dismayed." 

Opposite  to  the  entrance  to  the  Park  is  a  hostelrie,  like  the 
Hut,  so  well  known  to  all  who  have  visited  Newstead  Abbey ; 
from  which,  as  caterer  to  the  party,  T  had  arranged  that  we 
should  receive  such  additions,  which  thence  could  readily  be 
supplied,  as  were  necessary  to  complete  the  plenteous  repast 
we  had  taken  care  to  bring  with  us  from  Matlock.  Not  much 
difficultv  was  there,  either  in  obtaining  leave  to  take  that  aoTce- 
able  repast,  al  fresco,  under  the  shade  of  a  wide-spreading 
oak  in  Ilardwick  Park. 

So  passed  on  the  day ;  and  then  taking  a  farewell  lingering 
glance  of  the  old  Hall,  our  vehicles  were  once  more  put  in 


A     DESSERT.  309 

motion,  and  we  leisurely  returned  to  Matloct.    A  late  dinner, 
and  it  was  consolatory  to  notice  that  each  and  all  of  us  were 
able  to  do  justice  to  the  creature-comforts  of  the  table.     He 
was  a  sound  philosopher  who  said,  when  taunted  with  incli- 
nation for  epicurism,  that  Ileaven  certainly  never  meant  to 
reserve  the  good  things  of  earth,  air,  and  water,  for  the  grati- 
fication of  none  but  fools.     In  this  world,  even  appetite  must 
cease,  at  table ;  though,  to  be  sure,  it  may  be  succeeded  by 
pleasures  of  another  kind.    So  we  could  bear  with  the  removal  ' 
of  the  feast  to  which  we  had  done  justice,  when  we  reflected 
that  bright  "  wine,  which  raaketh  glad  the  heart  of  man," 
was  to  follow  in  companionship  with  the  delicate  and  luxu- 
rious dessert,  to  supply  which  all  parts  of  the  world  are  tribu- 
tary.    The  juice  of  the  grape  itself,  like  liquid  ruby  or  potable 
gold,  from  France,  Germany,  and  Portugal,  with  a  contribu- 
tion, perhaps,  from  the  terraced  vineyards  of  Madeira  ;  odorous 
coffee  from  Arabia,  with   sugar  from  the  Indies ;    swelling 
raisins  from  Spain  ;  luscious  figs  from  lands  whose  shores  are 
washed   by   the  tideless  Mediterranean;   mealy  dates   from 
Morocco ;  the  green  olive  from    the  Levant ;  almonds  from 
Asia ;  rich  apples  from  America  ;  preserved  guava  from  inter- 
tropical climes ;  while  from  the  hot-houses  and  gardens  of 
our  own  fair  land,  came  the  golden  pine,  and  Muscatel,  and 
Frontignac  grapes,  with  currants,  gooseberries,  strawberries, 
cherries,  and  plums,  in  great  perfection.     He  must  be  unrea- 
sonable indeed,  who  is  not  content  with  such  delicacies  as  these 
even  after  a  moderate  dinner.      We  had  consciences,  and  did 
not  complam. 


The  next  day,  the  fifth  of  our  sojourn  at  Matlock,  was  the 
First  of  June.     There  had  been  a  change  of  moon  that  morn- 


810  TRESSILIAN, 

ing,  whicli  probably  might  account  for  the  cold  and  compa- 
rative gloom,  realizing  Moore's  adaptation  of  Horace 
Walpole's  saying,  that 

"  June  had  now 
Set  In  with  all  his  usual  rigour." 

But  gloom  can  be  only  external  in  pleasant  companionship, 
and  the  sociality  of  breakfast  is  irresistible.  While  we  were 
at  the  table,  the  postman  brought  in  a  plentiful  supply  of  cor- 
respondence, the  perusal  of  which,  by  common  consent,  was 
entered  upon  forthwith  ;  while,  for  such  as  received  no  letters, 
there  were  the  London  journals  of  the  preceding  evening,  and 
the  county  paper  of  that  very  morning.  In  a  short  time,  Tressi- 
lian  announced,  aspart  of  the  intelligence  communicated  by  the 
missives  which  had  reached  him,  the  necessity  of  leaving  for 
London  on  the  following  day,  and  this,  in  effect,  was  equiva- 
lent to  the  breaking  up  of  our  party,  as  Lady  Morton  was  to 
accompany  them. 

As  we  had  yjreviously  arranged  to  devote  a  portion  of  this 
day  to  the  resumption  of  our  former  recreation  of  story-tel- 
ling, we  lost  little  time — after  newspapers  had  been  looked 
over,  and  letters  answered — in  resumino^  our  sitting.  Cravon, 
during  this  interval,  had  been  examining  one  of  his  portfolios, 
and  from  it  now  producing  a  sketch,  which,  he  assured  us, 
represented  a  well-known  edifice  at  Constantinople,  called 
the  Maiden  Tower,  offered  to  enlighten  us  as  to  its  original 
purpose,  by  relating  what  tradition  had  imagined  or  dis- 
covered, as  to  its  original  occupancy.  He  warned  us  that 
the  legend  was  very  brief,  and  that  he  should  not  have 
thought  of  repeating  it,  if  it  did  not  in  some  manner  bear 
out  a  remark  that  had  fallen  from  Tressilian,  at  breakfast, 
about  the  transmission  of  popular  stories  from  one  country 


TBADITIO  NS.  311 

to  another,  and  their  reproduction,  with  some  slight  differ- 
ences of  circumstance  and  costume,  to  suit  each  new  locality. 
Having  examined  his  drawing,  we  now  proceeded  to  give  due 
attention  to  his  story. 


312  TRESSILIAK. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  MAIDEI^  TOWEE. 

The  Thracian  Bosphorus — that  deep  and  rapid  channel 
which  connects  the  Black  Sea  with  the  Sea  of  Marmora — is  even 
studded  -with  many  a  fair  island.  On  one  of  the  smallest  of 
these,  nearly  midway  in  the  stream,  at  its  western  termina- 
tion, stands  a  square  huilding,  called  "  The  Maiden  Tower," 
which  is  now  used  as  the  plague-hospital  of  Constantinople. 
Many  ai-e  the  traditions  connected  with  this  miniature  forta- 
lice,  and  extremely  vague  are  the  notices  of  it  which  travel- 
lers have  been  able  to  collect.  The  most  current  belief  is 
that  it  was  built  by  the  Emperor  Manuel,  centuries  ago,  for 
the  purpose  of  communicating  with  the  Asian  side  opposite. 
A  strong  chain  was  drawn  across  the  whole  breadth  of  the 
Strait,  wJien  the  visit  of  a  hostile  fleet  was  apprehended. 

Another  account  (far  more  popular  among  the  ladies  of 
Istambol)  is,  that  in  this  very  island  was  the  dwelling  of  the 
fair  Hero,  to  whom  Leander  paid  nightly  visits,  swimming 
across  the  strait  from  Scutari — either  because  he  had  not 
money  enough  to  keep  a  caique  of  his  own,  or  was  afraid  of 
trusting  the  secret  of  his  visits  to  the  hired  caiquejhes  of  the 
time.  It  is  alleged,  further,  that  when  the  lovers  perished,  a 
tower  was  erected  on  this  island  to  perpetuate  their  memory, 
and  it  is  sagely  argued,  in  suj^port  of  this  theory,  that  on  no 
other  grounds  can  Turk  or  Giaour  account  for  the  fact  that 
the  building  is  sometimes  called  "Leander's  Tower." 

A  third  popular  tradition  is,  that,  long  years  ago,  a  beauti- 


L  E  G  E-N  D      OF     THE      MAIDEN     TOWER.  313 

ful  Georgian  was  sent  to  this  tower,  in  a  sort  of  honorable  cap- 
tivity, until  the  Sultan,  whom  she  had  scorned,  should  have 
time  to  throw  the  handkerchief  to  her — that  her  lover  found  his 
way  from  their  native  hills,  discovered  her  retreat,  and,  under 
the  cover  of  darkness,  boldly  ventured  to  climb  into  the 
splendid  cage  of  his  bird  of  beauty — that  he  remained  with 
her  until  star  flashed  forth  after  star,  lighting  up  the  jubilee 
of  Nio-ht's  royal  state — that  he  frequently  repeated  his  visits 
— and  that,  at  last,  when  the  Sultan  sought  the  maiden,  it 
was  discovered  that  she  had  fled. 

The  most  romantic  of  all  the  traditions  connected  with 
the  Maiden  Tower  (the  Turks  better  know  it  as  The  Guz- 
Couli)  is  that  which  I  shall  now  relate. 

One  of  the  Sultans,  many  a  century  since,  was  so  unfortu- 
nate as  not  to  have  a  daughter,  though  the  Imperial  nursery 
swarmed  with  children  of  the  other  sex.  The  longer  he  was 
without  this  blessing,  the  greater  grew  his  desire  for  it,  and 
greater  was  his  joy,  when  it  was  announced  to  him  that  a 
favourite  slave  had  become  the  mother  of  a  female  child, 
beautiful  (as  the  messenger  figuratively  declared),  as  the  star 
which  earliest  rises  and  latest  lingers  in  the  heavens.  So  de- 
lighted was  the  Sultan  with  this  intelligence,  that  he  im- 
mediately raised  the  mother  of  the  babe  from  an  Odalique  to 
the  rank  of  a  Sultana,  the  highest  dignity  he  could  confer. 

Of  course,  the  future  fate  and  fortunes  of  the  child  became 
objects  of  speculation  in  the  Seraglio,  and  it  appeared  only 
natural  that  the  Sultan  should  endeavor  to  read  the  future  of 
her  destiny.  A  celebrated  Dervish,  who  had  made  ten  pil- 
grimages to  the  Holy  City,  and  was  credibly  believed  to  have 
miraculously  obtained  a  chip  of  the  famous  and  sacred  Brack- 
tan  (or  black  stone  in  the  Kaaba),  at  Mecca,  was  summoned 
to  Constantinople,  from  his  retreat  in  the  Caucasian  moun- 
tains, to  discover  and  declare  what  the  stars  might  shew  of 

14 


314  TRESSILIAN. 

the  child's  fate,.  Being  paid  a  large  sum  ere  he  commenced 
his  astral  calculations,  and  promised  very  handsome  presents 
if  his  predictions  should  be  favourable,  the  holy  man  declared 
that  the  young  Fatima  should  be  happy  and  fortunate  as  heart 
could  wish  her,  but  that,  during  the  interval  between  her  six- 
teenth and  eighteenth  years,  her  life  would  be  in  peril  from  a 
serpent. 

The  child  grew  up,  beautiful  as  the  poetic  image  which 
the  Sculptor  releases  from  the  marble,  and  all  blessed  her, 
because  it  was  known  that  in  her  imperial  father's  angriest 
moods,  a  word  from  her  would  subdue  him  into  clemency. 
As  year  after  year  beheld  the  unfolding  of  this  fair  flower, 
her  father  noticed  with  delight,  that  seldom  had  earth  been 
gladdened  by  a  more  lovely  presence.  She  had  that  sweetest 
of  "all  graces — the  grace  of  gentleness.  She  had  more  of 
loveliness  than  beauty,  and  it  might  truly  be  said  of  her  that 

" She  moTed  in  light  of  Iier  own  making." 

Her  movements  might  be  called  features,  so  delicately 
graceful  and  expressive  were  they.  Hers  was  the  heart  and 
the  nature  which  make  life  of  value,  the  shrines  which 
sanctify  love  and  purify  passion.  Some  one  has  fancifully 
said  that  the  youth  of  Woman  is  the  very  poetry  of  being, 
and  he  would  have  believed  it  had  he  known  Fatima. 

When  the  maiden  approached  the  close  of  her  fifteenth 
year,  the  Sultan,  her  father,  had  the  little  tower  in  the 
island  of  the  Bosphorus  fitted  up  to  be  her  dwelling-place 
during  the  next  two  years.  Thither,  whenever  the  cares  of 
empire  permitted,  did  he  resort  to  enjoy  the  society  of  that 
dear  child,  and  there,  it  was  said,  did  her  gentle  and  thought- 
ful spirit  continue  to  influence  the  conduct  and  soften  the  heart 
of  this  haughty  Emperor  of  the  East.     Many  believed  that  the 


LEGEND      OF     THE      MAIDEN     TOWER.  315 

prediction  should  be  taken  as  figurative,  rather  than  real,  and 
that  the  only  serpent  to  be  dreaded  by  a  Turkish  maiden  in 
the  spring  of  Womanhood,  was  the  general  deceiver — Love  ! 

It  became  well  known  that  Fatima  dwelt  in  the  solitary 
tower,  and  many  a  petition  was  placed  in  the  basket  which, 
with  her  own  hands,  she  daily  drew  up  to  her  eyrie — many 
an  offering  of  flowers  and  fruit  did  the  hands  of  gratitude 
deposit  there. 

The  two  years  rolled  swiftly  on.  They  reached  the  very 
eve  of  their  completion.  The  next  day  would  see  the  maiden 
freed  from  the  confinement  in  which  the  watchful  affection 
of  her  anxious  father  had  placed  her.  Great  preparations 
were  made  for  the  triumphant  return  to  the  beautiful  home 
of  her  childhood,  within  sight  of  which  the  tower  stands. 
Asia  and  Europe  vied,  on  this  occasion,  in  rendering  honour 
and  paying  homage  to  the  beautiful,  the  beloved.  By  the 
Sultan's  command,  every  captive  in  his  dominions — whether 
for  crime  or  debt — would  be  set  free  on  the  next  morning. 
In  short,  seldom  had  the  gorgeous  East,  with  all  its  profuse 
magnificence,  been  so  intent  upon  display  as  on  this  auspicious 
occasion. 

The  happy  day  dawned,  and  Fatima  arose  with  the  sun. 
She  hurried  to  the  little  gallery  which  runs  round  the  upper 
part  of  the  tower,  and  from  which  could  be  observed  that, 
on  the  rock  beneath,  was  a  little  basket  which  affection  or 
gratitude  had  brought  to  the  island,  and  left  there  for  her 
acceptance.  She  pulled  it  up,  and  found  it  to  contain  a 
present  of  fresh  fruit,  carefully  packed  in  the  cool  and  broad 
leaves  of  the  vine. 

Within  an  hour  after  this,  a  boat  rapidly  swept  across  the 
Sti'ait,  from  the  opposite  point,  whereon  stands  the  Seraglio, 
with  its  beautiful  gardens.  It  conveyed  the  Sultan,  hastening 
to  offer  the  earliest  congratulations  to  his  daughter  on  her 


516  TRESSILIAN. 

escape  from  the  anticipated  peril,  and  on  the  bright  future 
before  her. 

He  hurried  to  her  apartment,  and  found  her  lying  on  one 
of  the  couches,  as  if  in  sleep,  Alas !  it  was  the  sleep  of 
death.  Among  the  fruit  which  the  basket  contained,  an  asp 
had  found  its  way,  and  its  minute  bite  upon  her  breast  had 
at  once  fatally  fulfilled  the  prediction,  and  destroyed  the 
maiden. 

This  is  the  true  legend  of  The  Maiden  Tower,  and  from 
this,  in  ail  likelihood,  the  edifice  obtained  the  name  by  which 
it  is  distinguished  to  the  present  day. 


A      STORY      BT     THE     MAJOR.  317 

x\t  the  special  request  of  Lady  Morton,  and,  to  a  man  of 
gallantry,  a  lady's  wish,  whether  insinuated  or  expressed,  ought 
to  be  equivalent  to  a  command — the  Major  undertook  to 
relate  a  story,  of  whose  incidents  he  had  some  knowledge, 
derived  from  one  of  the  parties  chiefly  concerned.  He 
would  take  the  liberty,  he  said,  of  substituting  fictitious  for 
real  names,  as  it  was  probable,  that  some  of  his  auditors 
might  yet  meet  the  persons  whose  adventures  he  should 
relate,  and  the  interest  of  the  narrative  would  be  in  no  manner 
affected  by  the  change.  We  were  happy  to  have  the  story 
in  his  own  terms,  and  the  Divan  yielded  him  their  best 
attention,  while  he  thus  narrated  what  certainly  might  be 
described  as  more  curious  than  probable : 


318  TRESSILJATfu 


THE  LAST  THROW  OF  THE  DICE. 

A  FETV  years  ago,  the  Marquis  x\ngelo  .Foscarini  was  induced* 
by  ill  health  and  longing  for  change  of  scene,  to  visit  Dieppe. 
He  was  a  noble  of  Genoa,  and  was  accompanied  by  the  Sig- 
norina  Teresa,  the  only  surviving  offspring  of  three  marriages. 

This  young  lady  possessed  beauty — exquisite,  brilliant, 
dazzling.  Her  complexion  was  that  clear  olive,  through  which 
the  blush  of  maiden  pui'ity  suffuses  itself  in  a  bloom  delicate 
and  soft  as  that  of  the  Proven9e  rose.  Her  eyes  were  dark, 
full,  flashing,  yet  often  relieved  by  a  subduing  softness.  Her 
dark  hair  well  accorded  with  her  complexion,  clime,  and 
youth  :  its  silken  tresses  fell  upon  a  neck  of  exquisite  round- 
ness, and  were  worn  so  as  to  shew  the  pale,  compact  brow. 
Delicately  pencilled  was  the  arched  outline  of  her  eye-brows. 
From  her  profile,  you  would  think  that  yon  beheld  the  classic 
contour  of  some  Athenian  beauty,  the  true  model  of  the  grace- 
ful forms  with  which  the  Grecian  sculptors  delighted  that  period 
as  they  bewilder  this.  Then  her  lips,  so  beautifully  distinct 
rather  than  separate,  just  as  if  they  were  about  to  breathe 
forth  those  impulse-words  which  the  lover  delights  to  hear. 
And,  when  she  did  speak,  how  sweetly  fell  the  music  of  her 
voice — like  the  far-off  melody,  distant  but  distinct,  which 
floats  upon  the  waters,  while  the  air  is  hushed  to  silence,  only 
broken  by  the  amorous  Echo,  which  faintly  repeats  them,  loth  to 
think  such  silvery  sounds  should  ever  die.  In  the  rudest  crowd, 
in  the  noisiest  din,  Teresa's  gentle  accents  came  refreshingly 


THE     LAST     THROW      OF      THE      DICE.  319 

upon  the  senses,  and  immediately  commanded  that  hushed 
attention,  which  is  the  best  tribute  of  respect  that  Woman  can 
conceive.  But,  beyond  this — beyond  the  perfect  form  and  the 
graceful  beauty,  -which  cast  around  her,  as  it  were,  a  visible 
atmosphere — her  mind,  naturally  intelligent,  had  been  culti- 
vated with  no  common  care.  She  had  numerous  accomplish- 
ments ;  she  had  read  much ;  she  had  enjoyed  the  familiar 
conversation  of  men  of  letters  and  science  in  different 
countries;  she  had  experienced  the  advantages  of  far-extended 
travel — in  short,  she  was  charming  alike  in  mind  and 
person. 

The  Marquis,  her  father,  was  very  proud  of  her  beauty  and 
accomplishments.  Yet  to  him  she  long  had  been  the  innocent 
cause  of  bitter  vexation.  Priding  himself  on  his  high  descent, 
he  constantly  cherished  deep  and  unavailing  regrets,  because, 
from  want  of  a  surviving  male  heir,  a  title  would  expire  in  his 
own  person,  which,  originally  won  by  the  sword  in  hard- 
fought  fields  of  fame,  had  been  lineally  transmitted  through 
many  centuries,  without  a  stain  once  resting  on  its  ermine. 
He  would  have  given  all  his  fortune — he  would  have  fed  upon 
water  and  a  crust — he  would  have  laid  down  his  own  life,  or 
even  sacrificed  that  of  his  daughter,  great  as  was  his  wayward 
and  fitful  love  for  her — to  have  a  son,  by  whom  the  proud  name 
and  honours  of  Foscarini  might  be  saved  from  extinction.  To 
perpetuate  them  was  with  him  a  passion — the  failure  of  that 
engrossing  desire  nearly  drove  him  to  despair,  and  at  times 
appeared  almost  to  peril  the  sanity  of  his  mind. 

The  Marquis  Angelo  Foscarini  had  been  born  to  extensive 
possessions,  and  had  much  augmented  them  by  advantageous 
marriages.  ]5efore  he  had  attained  the  age  of  fifty,  he  was 
the  widower  of  two  noble  Roman  dames,  and  had  also  fol- 
lowed to  the  grave  a  lady  closely  allied  to  the  Imperial  house 
of  Austria.     Of  all  his  children,  only  one  had  survived,  and 


320  TRESSILIAN. 

he  cursed  his  fate,  and  gnashed  his  teeth,  in  his  splendid  soli- 
tude as  he  thouofht  that  this  sole  survivor  was  onlv  a  daughter 
in  whom  his  hereditary  titles  would  be  lost.  Years  rolled  on. 
The  excitements  of  public  life  lost  their  power.  The  snow  of 
age  blanched  his  hair.  The  track  of  time  traced  wrinkles  on 
his  brow.  The  freshness  of  his  heart  was  in  the  tomb  of  his 
buried  youth.  He  felt  that,  with  swift  and  noiseless  advances, 
death  was  pressing  forward.  He  had  a  fever-dread  of  the 
mere  thought  of  the  final  hour,  which  was  to  hurry  him  from 
time  to  eternity.  So,  to  diminish  care — to  employ  his  weary 
hours —  to  banish  ennui — to  create  a  new  excitement  for  his 
palled  spirit — to  dissipate  the  ever-present  di'ead  of  death,  the 
last  of  the  Foscarini  plunged  headlong  into  the  vortex  of  soci- 
ety, as  wildly  as  if  the  world  was  only  just  opening  for  his 
enjoyment,  and  thus  he  strove  to  conquer  care  by  revelry. 

In  this,  after  all,  not  much  harm,  perhaps.  To  some  minds 
Society  may  be  safer  and  better  than  Solitude.  But  the  Mar- 
quis did  not  care  for  mere  pleasure — he  craved  excitement. 
lie  found  it  in  play.  He  grew  accustomed  to  stake  wealth 
on  the  cast  of  the  die,  and  thus  spent  long  nights.  At  first 
he  played  merely  to  divert  his  thoughts,  and  to  amuse  him- 
self by  watching  the  anxious  faces  around  him,  and  the  vary- 
ing passions  developed,  as  the  game  went  on.  Soon,  however, 
he  came  to  have  an  interest  in  success  or  failure.  Fortune 
turned  against  him,  and  then  he  almost  blushed  to  find  him- 
self doubling  the  stakes,  and  calculating  the  chances,  and 
eagerly  anticipating  the  result  of  each  cast.  Still  he  went  on, 
and  still,  though  he  sometimes  won,  his  losses  were  frequent 
and  heavy.  Then  he  resolved  to  play  boldly — as  he  had  heard 
that  timid  gamblers  rarely  win — and  he  would  be  content 
with  getting  back  his  losses.  If,  at  times,  the  thought  of  his 
daughter  came  into  his  mind,  he  would  still  the  intruding 
recollection   with  a  "  Tush !   she  is   but   a   woman — a  girl. 


THE     LAST     THROW      OF     THE     DICE.  321 

There  will  be  enough  for  her.  What  could  a  child  of  eight- 
een do  with  all  my  palaces — my  jewels — my  pictures — my 
gold  ?  I  hoarded  wealth,  long  ago,  for  my  heir ;  now,  I  havo 
none :  let  it  go  as  it  may.  Come  on,  come  on,  it  is  in  vain 
to  think  of  it.  Perhaps  I  may  die  to-morrow.  There  will  be 
enough  left  for  the  girl," 

Teresa  was  aware  of  her  father's  reckless  way  of  living. 
He  had  not  taken  any  pains  to  conceal  it  from  her.  Wholly 
regardless  of  how  he  wounded  her  sensitive  feelings,  he  inces- 
santly complained,  in  her  presence  as  in  her  absence,  of  his 
bitter  disappointment  at  not  having  a  surviving  son,  and  cursed 
himself  for  his  ill  fortune.  Teresa  was  all  gentleness  and  love 
— for  she  had  warm  aflections,  and  never  forgot  that  he  was 
her  father — but  her  love  made  slight  impression  on  a  heart 
which  hourly  appeared  to  become  more  ossified.  However, 
gentleness  and  love  cannot  ahvays  be  repulsed.  They  have  a 
power  which,  at  times,  can  pierce  even  a  heart  of  adamant. 
Earely  yet  have  they  been  exercised  without  some  good  result. 
When  the  Marquis  saw  his  ftiir  daughter  weeping  bitterly, 
her  hands  clasped  in  most  unfeigned  sorrow,  her  cheek  pale 
with  emotion — when  he  heard  her  beseech  him  to  bestow 
kind  words  upon  her,  and  implore  pardon  for  the  involuntary 
crime  of  being  a  woman — he  would  cease  his  reproaches  and 
complainings,  and,  looking  with  tenderness  and  admiration  on 
the  graceful  form  thus  bowed  in  humble  entreaty  before  him, 
would  press  a  father's  kiss  upon  her  head,  and  abruptly  leave 
the  room,  as  if  afraid  that  his  awakened  love  might  pour 
forth  its  strono;  emotions  in  words. 

In  fact,  though  he  very  often  treated  her  harshly,  the  Mar- 
quis did  warmly  love  Teresa.  Not,  indeed,  with  pure  pater- 
nal love — for  the  better  part  of  the  father  was  buried  with 
the  son  who  long  since  had  died  in  youth — but  he  loved  her 
because  she  was  a  being  of  whose  beauty,  grace,  and  accomplish- 

14* 


1 

32^  TRESSILIAN. 

ments  he  felt  very  proud.  On  that  account,  be  obliged  her 
to  accompany  him  in  his  trav^els — on  that  account,  he  had 
refused  the  richest  offers  for  her  hand  which  the  admiring  no- 
bles of  Italy  and  Germany  had  made.  With  him.  Pride  was 
the  first  and  the  last.  That  passion  made  him  delight  to  ex- 
hibit in  society  the  daughter  who  would,  otherwise,  have 
remained  in  her  convent,  or  under  the  care  of  a  duenna,  in 
one  of  their  lonely  country  villas.  While  she  was  with  him, 
the  object  of  universal  admiration,  the  attention  she  excited  gra- 
tified his  pride.  She  was  his,  and  the  admiration  bestowed 
upon  her  was  reflected  upon  him.  "  Remain  with  me  yet  a 
little  longer,"  he  would  sometimes  say,  "  it  will  be  time 
enough  for  you  to  wed  when  the  old  man  dies." 

At  Dieppe,  he  plunged  into  revelry  yet  deeper  than  Teresa 
remembered  him  to  have  yet  yielded  to,  and  indulged  in  ex- 
cesses, equally  unsuited  to  his  failing  health'.  He  now  devoted 
the  greater  part  of  every  night  to  the  fatal  temptations  of 
the  gaming  table,  and,  though  naturally  of  the  luost  temper- 
ate habits,  eqully  other  children  of  the  warm  South  ,he  had 
now  learned  to  indulge  in  the  free  use  of  wine.  It  was  his 
custom  to  bathe  in  the  sea  every  morning,  and  thus  recruit 
his  strength  for  the  exhausting  pleasures  of  the  night.  It 
chanced,  one  morning,  w-hen  the  sea  was  more  boisterous,  and 
bis  frame  more  enervated  than  usual,  that,  being  overpower- 
ed by  a  monstrous  wave,  he  was  dashed  against  the  beach, 
breathless  and  fainting.  The  next  retreating  rush  of  tha 
waters  would  have  borne  him  out  into  the  midst  of  the  eddying 
current,  without  the  power  of  resistance,  if  a  young  man,  who 
happened  to  be  bathing  near  the  spot,  had  not  dashed  for- 
ward and  rescued  him.  Foscarini,  on  his  recovery,  recogni- 
zed his  preserver  as  a  young  officer  whom  he  had  met  at 
Vienna,  and  whose  attentions  to  Teresa  had  been  so  well 
received  by  her,  as  to  cause  him  some  uneasiness.     Yet,  to  this 


TUE     LAST     THROW      OF     THE     DICE.  323 

gentleman  he  now  owed  his  life.  So,  when  the  German 
asked  permission  to  wait  upon  him  at  his  hotel,  to  enquire 
after  his  health,  common  courtesy  dictated  an  assent,  how- 
ever constrained  and  cold. 

The  young  German  officer  was  more  than  ever  in  love  with 
Teresa,  but  two  years  had  passed  since  he  last  had  seen  her, 
and  he  was  too  expert  in  the  ways  of  the  world  to  betray 
that  love,  as  he  once  before  had  done.  He  met  and  accosted 
Teresa  without  any  apparent  emotion,  and  the  Marquis,  nar- 
rowly watching  both  of  them,  was  happy  to  perceive  that  she 
received  him  without  much  embarrassment.  He  paid  the 
usual  compliments  of  society  with  easy  politeness,  and  Teresa 
returned  them  in  the  same  manner.  From  all  this,  Foscarini 
did  not  hesitate  to  believe  that  though  the  young  man  might 
once  have  entertained  a  passion  for  Teresa,  it  had  long  since 
died  away  from  absence  and  hopelessness.  He  did  not  know 
that,  from  the  time  she  quitted  Vienna,  Teresa  had  contrived 
to  correspond  with  Stephen  U tercliv :  and  that  his  presence 
in  Dieppe  was  caused  by  her  desire  that  he  should  join  her 
in  a  little  plot  against  her  father — for  his  good. 

Convinced  that  nothing  was  now  to  be  apprehended,  the 
Marquis  abandoned  the  reserve  with  which,  at  first,  he  had 
received  Stephen  Utercliv.  In  a  short  time,  they  became 
great  friends.  By  degrees,  the  Marquis  even  formed  an  at- 
tachment for  this  young  man,  made  him  the  confidant  of  his 
secret  cares,  told  him  how  he  had  plunged  into  the  excite- 
ment of  gaming  in  order  to  dissipate  bitter  thoughts,  and  laid 
bare  before  him  all  the  wretchedness  of  heart,  which  he 
endeavored  to  hide  from  the  world  beneath  the  mask  of 
gaiety.  Thus  Stephen  soon  thoroughly  knew  the  past  and  pre- 
sent life  of  the  Marquis  ;  his  baffled  hopes,  his  secret  griefs, 
his  perpetual  regi'ets,  his  remorse  for  time  and  talents  wasted. 

Teresa  had  also  revealed  to  him  all  that  she  knew — much 


324  TRESSILIAN. 

■svhicli  he  could  use  as  the  key  to  the  old  man's  heart.  Long 
since,  she  had  given  her  young  afiection  to  Stephen  Utercliv. 
Her  chief  desire  now  was  to  draw  her  father  from  the  debas- 
ing pursuits  which  injured  the  health  of  mind  and  body,  and 
threatened  the  total  ruin  of  his  fortunes, 

Stephen  had  now  become  so  necessary  to  the  Marquis  that  he 
spent  every  evening  in  his  company.  Humoring  his  eager- 
ness for  play,  he  joined  him  at  the  gaming  table,  and  speedi- 
ly became  as  adventurous  a  gambler  as  any  in  Dieppe.  In 
a  short  time,  they  ceased  to  play  at  the  public  table,  and 
made  use  of  a  private  room  in  which,  instead  of  adventurous 
playing  against  the  bank,  they  might  play  against  each  other, 
allowing  the  bank  a  per-centage  on  the  stakes.  In  this  man- 
ner the  Marquis  and  Stephen  Utercliv  now  played,  one 
a2:ainst  the  other,  and,  in  a  month,  Utercliv  had  drawn  the 
full  amount  of  his  letters  of  credit,  having  lost  all  to  the  Mar- 
quis. He  told  this  to  Teresa,  mentioning  that  he  could  readi- 
ly arrange  to  receive  further  remittances  from  Vienna,  but 
she  was  afraid  that,  in  the  interval,  her  father  might  return 
to  the  public  table,  and  then  again  become  the  prey  of 
sharpers.  She  therefore  insisted  on  supplying  Stephen  with 
money — which,  however,  he  lost.  The  more  he  lost,  the 
better  pleased  was  Foscarini,  for  he  could  now  find  happiness 
in  winning  that  gold  which  had  once  been  the  slave  of  his 
will  but  now  was  the  ruler  of  his  heart.  Meanwhile,  how- 
ever, he  abandoned  his  indulgence  in  wine,  and  was  by  no 
means  as  much  disposed  to  play  as  when  he  had  formerly  lost 
largely.     Success  had  moderated  his   excitement. 

There  is  a  German  game  called  brelau,  of  which  the 
Ikfarquis  was  very  fond.  He  apprised  Stephen  of  his  pre- 
dilection, and  the  German  lost  no  time  in  discovering  that  it 
■was  one  of  the  most  interesting  games  in  the  world.  Up  to 
this  time  he  had  lost  above  ten  thousand  Napoleons,  when, 


THE     LAST     THROW      OF     THE     DICE.  325 

one  evening,  he  came  to  Foscarini,  bringing  fifty  I^apoleons 
with  him — all  that  he  could  then  procure.  This  was  the  last 
money  that  Teresa  could  give  him.  The  Marquis  had  always 
made  her  a  very  splendid  allowance,  and  she  had  never  spent 
the  whole  of  it.  The  lovers'  plot  had  been  to  keep  the 
Marquis  at  play  with  Utercliv  alone.  They  expected  that 
the  smiles  of  fortune  would  have  been  somewhat  equally 
distributed,  at  least.  Their  hope  had  been  too  sanguine. 
Instead  of  alternate  good  fortune  which,  while  it  amused  the 
Marquis,  would  really  not  diminish  hjs  Avealth,  there  had 
been  a  constant  run  of  ill  luck  against  Stephen  Utercliv. 
When  he  had  taken  the  last  fifty  Napoleons  from  Teresa,  his 
Avords  were,  "  Fortune  opposes  our  good  intentions.  One 
ti-ial — one  more  trial.  If  I  lose  this,  I  play  no  more.  I 
shall  explain  all  to  your  father,  demand  you  in  marriage,  and 
if  he  should  refuse  me,  you  see  no  more  of  me  until  his 
death  leaves  you  free."  Teresa  allowed  him  to  embrace  her, 
and  shed  many  tears  at  his  departure,  for  she  dreaded  that 
her  father  would  reject  the  suit  of  her  lover,  and  she  knew 
him  well  enough  to  dread  that  he  would  keep  his  resolution 
of  not  seeins:  her  until  she  had  the  freedom  of  action,  of 
which  he  spoke. 

When  Stephen  Utercliv  went  to  the  salon,  a  little  later 
than  usual,  he  found  that  the  Marquis,  tired  of  waiting  foi 
him,  had  gone  to  play  at  the  public  table.  Thither  he  went, 
and  found  every  one  in  a  state  of  high  excitement.  Fortune 
had  at  length  come  round  to  the  Marquis,  and  he  won,  what- 
ever colour  he  backed.  Encouraged  by  this  success,  he 
continued  to  play,  with  largely  increased  stakes.  At  last, 
when  he  remained  the  only  player,  he  challenged  the  bank. 
After  some  deliberation,  his  defiance  was  accepted.  He 
backed  one  colour,  and  an  uninterrupted  series  of  successes, 
doubling  the  stakes  each  time  in  arithmetical  progression,  left 


TRESSILIAN* 


him,  at  last,  largely  the  conqueror.  He  had  broken  the  bank 
and  had  thus,  by  one  coup^  regained  much  of  his  former 
losses  at  Dieppe. 

Flushed  with  this  success,  the  Marquis  quitted  the  salon, 
inviting  Stephen  Utercliv  to  accompany  him  to  supper  at  his 
hotel,  also  extending  his  hospitality  to  four  players  who,  in 
the  early  part  of  the  evening,  had  played  with  him  at  the 
public  table.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  their 
company.  They  consisted  of  two  planters  from  the  Ilavan- 
nah,  the  captain  of  an  English  merchantman,  and  a  Parisian 
banker.  After  supper,  cards  were  introduced.  The  Marquis 
and  Stephen  Utercliv  were  opponents,  as  usual.  Stephen 
commenced  with  ten  Napoleons  :  that  stake  soon  disappeared, 
as  did  three  others  of  the  same  amount.  He  had  only  ten 
pieces  left.  He  was  full  of  agitation.  Foscarini,  never 
dreaming  how  nearly  his  young  friend  approached  to 
extremity,  rallied  him  upon  the  lowness  of  his  stakes.  With 
a  trembling  hand,  the  young  man  placed  the  remnant  of  his 
money  on  the  table.  Fortune  favoured  him  with  a  pair-royal 
of  Kings,  and  he  won  a  hundred  Napoleons  from  the  Parisian 
banker.  Luck  continued,  and,  by  five  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  Stephen  Utercliv  had  gained  200,000  francs,  the 
banker  had  won  80,000,  the  Englishman,  20,000,  and  each 
of  the  planters,  5,000.  This  made^nearly  jCl  3,000  in  our 
money.*  Foscarini  had  lost  it  all.  It  pulled  hard  upon  his 
gains  in  the  previous  part  of  the  evening.  The  party  took 
cofiee,  and  separated,  agreeing  to  resume  the  play  at  night. 

Night  came,  and  the  morning's  play  was  child's  sport  in 
comparison  with  what  now  came  on.  The  other  guests,  after 
losing  a  great  portion  of  their  previous  winnings,  remained 
simply  as  spectators,  the  Marquis  and  Stephen  Utercliv  alone 

^  *  Sixty -two  thousand  doUara. 


THE      LAST     THROW      OF     THE     DICE.  327 

continued  to  play.  It  would  be  wearisome  to  trace  the 
gradual  and  heavy  losses  of  the  Marquis.  First  went  all  his 
ready  money,  then  followed  his  ancestral  palace  at  Genoa — 
his  Florentine  casino — his  Roman  villa — his  estates  in  Austria 
— his  pictures — his  hereditary  jewels.  All,  all  were  staked, 
and  lost.  Yet  he  played  on,  until  the  day  dawned,  and 
awoke  him  to  a  sense  of  the  utter  ruin  he  had  made.  The 
pale  light  of  the  morning  struck  into  the  room,  and  played 
upon  the  wall  in  striking  contrast  to  the  dim  glare  of  the 
expiring  tapers.  The  Marquis  looked  more  like  a  marble 
statue  than  a  human,  living  being.  The  gold  was  piled  up 
in  heaps — bonds,  and  contracts,  and  parchments  lay  beside 
them. 

Fearfully  appalling  was  the  expression  of  the  old  man's 
countenance.  lie  found  himself  stripped  of  every  thing. 
Fixing  his  bloodshot  eyes  upon  Stephen  Utercliv,  he  said,  in 
a  hoarse  tone  which  sounded  like  the  menacing  mutterings 
of  a. thunder-storm,  "Sir,  all  that  I  have  lost  is  yours,  even 
more.  I  trust  that  I  shall  find  you  a  most  gentle  creditor. 
The  other  players  have  won  a  very  trifle;  but  yon — houses, 
lands,  jewels,  pictures,  gold — all,  even  to  the  very  watch 
which  told  me  the  hour,  are  passed  away.  At  this  moment, 
you  may  say — perhaps  you  will  say,  '  Old  man,  that  you  can 
break  your  fast  to-day  will  be  wholly  owing  to  my  bounty, 
for  you  have  nothing  of  your  own.' " 

"  But  allow  me  -' 

"  Rather  allow  me,  sir,  to  speak.  I  have  lost  my  wealth — 
all ;  but  perhaps  my  years  and  these  grey  hairs  may  entitle 
me  to  be  heard.  Perhaps  you  would  command  my  absence  ? 
Perhaps  you  are  anxious  to  count  the  sum  of  your  new 
wealth  ?     You  may  " 

"Indeed,  sir" 

"  Again,  I  say,  let  me  speak.     I  think  we  met  at  Vienna 


328  TRES8ILIAN. 

I  think,  young  man,  that  then  I  gave  you  to  understand  that 
your  attentions  to  my  daughter  were  not  acceptable  to  me  ?" 

"My  dear  sir— " 

"  You  loved  my  daughter  then  ?  Deny  it  not.  I  heard 
you  swear,  on  bended  knees,  to  love  her  always.  I  had  the 
power  to  say  then,  and  I  did  say,  '  Love  lier  not.'  But  you 
did  love  her.     Did  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  thought  so.  Do  you  still  love  her  ?  Speak  with  your 
lips  what  the  changing  hues  of  your  fece  have  already  told 
me.     Young  man,  do  you  still  love  my  daughter  ?" 

"  As  I  love  my  life." 

"It  is  well.  I  am  not  wholly  beggared.  1  had  forgotten 
one  jewel — and  the  richest.     I  have  one  stake  left.     I  will 

PLAY  YOU  FOR  MY  DAUGHTER." 

At  this  strange  proposal,  made  with  all  the  measured 
calmness  of  despair,  all  the  rest  of  the  party  started  on  their 
feet  in  utter  astonishment,  and  it  was  evident  from  their  looks 
that  they  did  not  wish  Stephen  to  accept  it.  The  young 
man's  face  lighted  up  with  a  most  joyous  expi'ession.  He 
could  have  thrown  himself  into  the  arms  of  the  Marquis;  but 
nothino-  could  surpass  the  hauteur  with  which  he  was  repulsed. 
Still,  not  perceiving  that  his  late  opponent  had  become  a  bitter 
enemy,  Stephen  Utercliv  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
and  said,  in  a  grave  and  dignified  manner,  "Sir,  if  you  will 
have  me  for  a  son-in-law,  here,  at  this  moment,  I  humbly  say, 
in  the  presence  of  these  gentlemen,  take  back  all  that  Chance 
has  robbed  you  of.  I  fear,  from  your  looks,  that  I  do  entreat 
in  vain  ?" 

"  Indeed  you  do,"  exclaimed  the  Marquis,  passionately. 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes.  "  Well,  then,"  said 
Stephen,  "  I  accept  your  proposal.  I  will  stake  whatever  you 
may  think  fit  to  name." 


THE      LAST      THROW      OF      THE     DICE.  329 

The  bystanders  uttered  a  murmur  of  horror.  Foscarini 
glanced  at  them  with  stern  contempt.  He  turned  to  Stephen, 
and  said,  "  Whatever  sum  you  please." 

"  I  will  stake  against  your  daughter  all  that  I  have  here 
won  from  you — all  that  I  possess  in  the  world  besides,  even 
to  the  reversion  of  the  heritaq-e  which  will  descend  to  me 
from  my  father," 

"  It  is  well,"  said  the  Marquis. 

They  sat  down.  "  I  am  tired  of  the  cards,"  said  the 
Marquis.  "  Permit  me  to  propose  that  we  try  our  fortunes, 
this  time,  with  the  dice  ?" 

"  As  you  please,"  answered  Utercliv. 

"  And  to  give  variety,  suppose  that  the  winner  shall  be  he 
whose  single  cast  has  the  lowest  number  ?" 

"  As  you  wish,"  answered  Utercliv. 

"  Then,"  said  the  Marquis,  apparently  as  unconcerned  as  if 
he  was  about  to  play  for  a  five  franc  piece,  "  as  I  am  the 
challenger,  I  think  I  should  have  the  first  throw  ;  though  it 
is  rather  a  disadvantage."  He  took  up  the  dice-box,  gaily 
rattled  the  dice,  and  then  made  the  cast. 

"  By  Jove,"  said  the  English  Captain,  "  that's  a  good  throw. 
The  Marquis  has  thrown  aces.  The  Marquis  wins.  Fifty  to 
one  on  the  Marquis." 

"  The  real  odds  are  not  quite  so  much,"  said  the  Marquis. 
"Besides,  M.  Utercliv  may  throw  aces  also,  and  then,  as  there 
would  be  a  tie,  we  must  throw  again,  and  the  chances  would 
*be  even." 

"  No  great  chance,  said  the  Captain,  "  that  he  will  throw 
aces.  Now,  if  the  Marquis  had  thrown  seven,  it  would  be  a 
difierent  thinof.  There  are  more  chances  that  seven  will  turn 
up,  on  two  dice  of  sixes,  than  any  other  number — seize-ace 
make  seven ;  so  do  cinq-deuce ;  so  do  quatre-trois.     To  make 


330  TRESSILIAN. 

a  cinq,  you  can  only  have  quatre-ace  and  trois-deuce ;  and 
for  a  quatre  we  have  only  deuces,  or  tray-ace." 

"You  are  quite  learned  in  these  matters,"  said  Utercliv, 
taking  the  box. 

"  Why,"  answered  the  Captain,  "  as  we  sometimes  play 
hazard  in  England,  to  say  nothing  of  back-gammon,  Hoyle 
stands  next  to  hand  with  us,  like  the  Post  Office  Directory 
and  the  Red  Book,  on  the  desk  or  library-table." 

As  Stephen's  acquaintance  with  English  literature  did  not 
extend  to  these  valuable  hand-books,  he  merely  bowed  to  the 
Captain,  and  rattled  the  dice. 

He  threw  them. 

The  dice  liad  accidentally  fallen  in  an  odd  position.  One 
of  them  had  lodged  on  the  top  of  the  other.  It  was  an  ace. 
Thus  only  one  actually  appeared  as  Stephen  Utercliv's  cast. 
The  Marquis  gently  raised  the  topmost  die.  The  second  die, 
strangely  enough,  was  an  ace  also. 

"  You  must  throw  again,"  said  the  Captain,  "  that  cast  is 
no  cast,  as  both  dice  did  not  shew." 

"  Strictly  speaking,"  lisped  the  Parisian  banker,  who  had 
some  experience  at  Frescati's,  "  I  think  that  as  the  Marquis 
has  raised  the  die,  and  shown  the  second  die  to  be  also  an 
ace,  it  must  be  considered  that  aces  have  been  shown,  and  it 
must  be  taken  as  a  tie.     Both  gentlemen  must  throw  again." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  Captain.  "I  have  played  five 
thousand  hits  of  backgammon  in  England,  so  say  nothing  of 
hazard,  and  when  the  die  lodges,  the  caster  in  hand  throws 
the  dice  over  again,  but  the  other  throw  stands." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Marquis,  addressing  Stephen  Utercliv, 
"  neither  of  these  gentlemen  have  spoken  correctly.  You 
have  won  the  throw.  The  acrreement  was  clear — that  the 
thrower  of  the  lowest  number  should  win.     I  threw  aces. 


THE     LAST     THROW      OF     THE     DICE.  331 

You,  more  fortunate,  have  thrown  a  single  ace.  The  game  is 
yours." 

Fearful  that  some  dreadful  scene  might  follow,  the  by- 
standers prepared  to  depart.  The  Marquis  was  calm.  They 
did  not  see  that  it  was  the  calmness  of  despair.  They  paid 
their  parting  respects  to  him,  which  he  acknowledged  with 
his  usual  statel}'  courtesy.  But  they  paused,  as  they  were  at 
the  door,  for  they  saw  that  the  father  who  had  just  lost  his 
child  on  the  cast  of  a  die,  was  subdued  to  tears, 

Stephen  drew  near  to  him,  and  said,  in  the  most  con- 
ciliatory manner,  "  My  dear  Marquis,  consider  all  that  has 
passed  between  us  as  but  a  dream.  You  are  not  a  loser,  nor 
am  I  a  winner." 

"  I  not  a  loser  ?  Ask  these  gentlemen  whether  I  have  lost 
nothing.  Look  at  your  own  rich  spoils  on  that  table,  and  say 
that  you  liave  won  nothing.  Think  that  I  have  lost  my  honor 
— that  I  have  lost  my  own  self-esteem — that  having  lost  her 
fortune,  I  have  put  up  my  child  as  a  gambler's  last  desperate 
stake — and  say  that  I  have  lost  nothinor. — Not  a  word.  Think 
not  I  mean  to  excite  your  compassion  Thank  God,  a  Fosca- 
rini  need  not  stoop  so  low  as  that.  No,  if  my  manner — if 
ray  tears,  say  so,  then  my  manner  and  my  tears  do  belie  me." 

He  advanced  to  the  door.  Before  he  could  reach  it,  he 
had  fallen  down.  Stronw  ao^itation  had  overcome  him.  The 
old  man  was  insensible  : — a  paralytic  stroke  had  made  him 
incapable  of  action,  mind  and  body. 

Immediate  assistance  was  aftbided.  In  a  few  weeks,  the 
Marquis  was  pronounced  out  of  danger.  In  little  more  than 
a  month  from  the  attack  he  was  once  more  convalescent, 
though  much  shaken,  and  received  no  visitors.  His  daughter, 
who  was  unwearied  in  her  attendance  on  him,  noticed,  with 
sorrow,  that,  since  his  illness,  his  whole  manner  had  changed. 
He  had  no  idea  that  she  was  aware  of  what  had  occurred  on 


332  ■  TRESSILIAN. 

tlie  last  occasion  when  he  had  played  with  Stephen  UtercHv 
He  felt  now  that  something  remained  for  him  to  do,  and  he 
nerved  himself  to  do  it. 

Utercliv  had  gone  to  a  soiree,  and  on  returning  to  the 
hotel  in  which  he  resided,  the  porter  informed  him  that  two 
persons  were  in  his  aj^artments,  and  (it  now  being  midnight) 
had  there  been  waiting  for  some.  On  entering  the  room  he 
saw — the  Marquis  and  his  daughter. 

"  Xo  doubt,  my  presence  here  at  this  late  hour  is  a  surprise 
to  you,"  said  Foscarini,  deliberately.  "  However,  this  inter- 
vievf  would  have  taken  place  before,  if  it  had  not  pleased 
Heaven,  as  you  know,  to  afflict  me  with  sudden  and  severe  ill- 
ness. My  first  visit  was  due  to  you.  Sir ;  gambling  debts, 
you  know,"  he  added,  with  a  bitter  smile,  "must  be  paid.  I 
come  to  discharge  mine.  Sir,  you  have  won  my  daughter. — 
She  is  here.  I  bring  her  to  you.  I  have  used  no  force  to 
conduct  lier  hither.  She  accompanied  me  of  her  o^vn  free 
will.     Did  you  not,  Teresa  ?" 

He  spoke  with  a  cold  sneer  upon  his  lips.  His  daughter 
could  not  answer  for  her  tears. 

After  a  brief  delay,  in  which  he  appeared  to  reflect  on 
what  he  should  say,  he  resumed : — "  She  is  yours.  I  have  no 
longer  a  daughter.  But  you,  mark  me — ^you  have  not  yet  a 
wife.  I  will  never  acknowledge  you  as  a  son-in-law.  Who- 
ever weds  ray  daughter,  must  be  of  noble  lineage  : — you,  Sir, 
are  nobody." 

"  Let  me  assure  you,  that  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Stephen 
Utercliv.  "  I  have  not  hitherto  spoken  of  my  family,  but  I 
believe  that  is  in  every  respect  entitled  to  rank  with  your 
own." 

"  Not  until  my  death,"  continued  the  Marquis,  not  heeding 
Utercliv's  observation,  "  can  Teresa  by  your  wife.  Not  before, 
because  she  would  not  do  anything  contrary  to  my  wish, — 


THK     LAST     THROW      OF     THE     DICE.  333 

However,  you  won  the  stake,  and  here  it  is."  As  he  said 
this,  be  took  Teresa  by  the  band,  and  presented  her  to  Utercliv. 

Iiumediatelv,  be  went  to  tbe  door,  turned  the  key  in  tbe 
lock,  and  fixed  tbe  bolt.  He  rushed  back  into  the  middle 
of  tbe  room.  "  Now  for  revenge,"  he  shouted,  in  a  terrible 
voice,  and  with  tbe  fiery  glance  and  infuriated  gesture  of  a 
maniac.  He  produced  a  pair  of  pistols.  "  Mark  me  ! — both 
of  tbese  weapons  are  unloaded.  I  will  load  one  them.  You 
see  that  I  have  put  in  the  powder.  Let  me  now  drive  the  ball 
firmly  down.  It  is  done.  We  will  confound  tbese  weapons 
too-etber,  so  that  neitber  can  know  which  is  loaded.  There. 
I  do  not  know  wbich  holds  the  deadly  charge.  One  of  us 
■will  soon  know.  We  will  each  take  a  pistol,  present  it  at 
the  breast,  and  pull  tbe  trigger  at  the  same  moment.  If  I 
slay  you,  I  dare  say  that  my  daughter  will  return  home  with 
me,  for  it  is  scarcely  possible,  that  you  can  have  disposed  of 
her  by  testament.  If  you  kill  me,  Teresa  may  wed  her 
father's  slayer — if  she  will." 

While  the  Marquis  had  been  busied  with  the  pistols,  and 
wbile  he  bad  been  speaking,  Stepben  Utercliv  had  steadily 
kept  his  eyes  upon  bim,  confident  that  his  mind  was  affected, 
and  undecided  what  to  do  or  say.  He  knew  that  a  maniac 
is  best  controlled  by  quiet  firumess.  He  therefore  listened 
with  calmness,  to  what  tbe  Marquis  said,  in  tbe  hope,  too,  tbat 
his  passion  might  exhaust  itself  in  vehement  language.  Now, 
when  the  Marquis  ceased  to  speak,  Stephen  again  made  an 
efibrt  to  reason  with  him. 

"  Your  daughter,"  said  he,  "  belongs  not  to  you  nor  to  me. 
In  a  moment  of  excitement  you  risked  her  upon  the  hazard  of 
tbe  dice.  I  do  not  claim  her,  because  the  cast  was  in  my 
favour.  I  repeat,  that  when  you  examine  my  pretensions,  you 
will  find  that,  in  family  and  in  fortune,  I  am  not  inferior  to 
yourself.     I  love  your  daughter,  and    would  be  content  to 


334  .  -  T  R  E  S  S  I  L  I  A  N  . 

leave  to  her  the  decision  on  which  depends  my  future  happi- 
ness. As  for  the  losses  which  you  sustained,  I  have  not 
taken  advantage  of  them.  Your  money,  your  papers,  your 
securities,  are  in  yonder  desk,  at  your  command,  whenever 
you  please  to  receive  them.  I  played  with  you  not  for  gain, 
but  in  the  hope  of  weaning  you  from  play,  or,  if  that  unhappy 
passion  continued,  of  letting  you  feel  its  evil  effects.  I  fan- 
cied that  if  I  could  make  you  believe  that  you  were  ruined, 
the  effect  of  the  reverse  would  be  beneficial,  and  then  that, 
when  your  fortune  was  restored  to  you,  I  might  hope  to  be 
repaid  by  your  sanction  for  my  attachment  to  Teresa." 

"  Name  her  not,"  shouted  the  Marquis.  "  Move  one  step — 
utter  one  word,  and  I  fire  into  my  daughter's  heart.  Sit 
down  1" 

With  strength  to  which  his  fuiy  now  added  vehement 
power,  the  Marquis  forced  Utercliv  into  a  chair.  He  seated 
himself  in  another,  immediately  opposite.  There  they  sat,  so 
close  that  Stephen  felt  his  hot  breath  upon  his  face.  He 
thrust  one  of  the  pistols  into  Stephen's  hand.  Teresa,  move- 
less as  a  statue — paralysed  by  fear — remained  standing  within 
a  few  feet  of  her  father  and  her  lover.  She  was  wholly  inca- 
pable of  action  or  speech,  and  looked  on,  like  one  astonished. 

"Now,"  cried  the  Marquis,  "  comes  on  the  last  scene  of  the 
melo-drama.  The  devoted  lover,  the  stony-hearted  father,  the 
beautiful  daughter — all  are  on  the  stage,  and  one  little  click 
of  the  trigger,  will  give  the  denouement.  Now,  Sir — you 
have  your  weapon.  Thus  I  raise  mine,  and  when  I  count 
three,  I  shall  fii'C.     You  may  do  the  same." 

With  an  involuntary  impulse,  Stephen  raised  his  hand : — 
that  which  held  the  pistol. 

"One — two — three."  Instantly,  the  Marquis  pulled  the 
trirr'^er 


\ 

SUSPENSE.  335 

The  Major,  abruptly  pausing  as  he  uttered  this  unfinished 
sentence,  remarked  that  the  sky  appeared  rather  cloudy,  and 
he  thought  he  would  go  into  the  open  air,  and  return  with  a 
report  of  the  prospects  of  fine  weather  for  the  next  day.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  was  lounging  out  of  the  room,  with  provoking 
coolness,  when  an  universal  exclamation  arrested  his  progress. 

"  Surely,"  said  one  of  us,  speaking  for  the  rest,  "  you  cannot 
think  of  leaving  us,  even  for  five  minutes,  in  a  state  of  uncer- 
tainty ?" — He  afiected  not  to  know  what  was  meant,  but  a 
word  and  a  glance  from  the  fair  widow,  who  appeared  to  have 
acquired  some  intiuence  over  him,  rather  felt  than  exercised, 
quickened  his  intelligence.  He  enquired  what  was  meant — 
what  was  asked  of  him? — "Nothing  more,"  said  Lady  Mor- 
ton, "  than  that  you  should  bring  your  story  to  a  conclusion. 
You  cannot,  intentionally,  be  so  provoking  as  to  think  of 
leaving  it  without  a  finale^  like  an  epigram  without  its 
point.     You  are  as  bad  as — 

'  Him  who  left  untold 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold.' 

You  have  given  us  a  narration  with  all  fullness  of  detail  as  to 
characters  and  circumstance — you  have  brought  the  hero  and 
heroine  into  a  difiiculty,  out  of  which,  it  would  seem,  that 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle  can  extricate  them — and  just 
when  one  more  half  sentence  would  give  us  the  denouement, 
you  leave  it  unspoken.  To  say  nothing  of  the  impropriety 
of  leaving  the  gentlemen  in  suspense,  you  ought  to  recollect, 
that  the  only  heir-loom  which  our  sex  inherits  from  Eve  is — 
Curiosity." 

"  And  the  power  of  persuasion,"  added  the  Major,  with  a 
bow. 

"  Let  us  then,  exercise  this  power,"  exclaimed  both  of  the 
Indies,  "  and  prevail  upon  you  to  complete  the  story." 


336  ;TRESSILIAN. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  Major,  re-seating  himself,  "Let  me 
see  where  we  left  ofi".  I  remember :  Stephen  Utercliv  and 
the  Marquis  were  seated  opposite  each  other,  pistol  in  hand, 
only  one  of  the  weapons  being  loaded,  and  neither  of  the 
combatants  knowing  wlio  held  it.  The  Marquis  pulled  the 
trigger,  and  the  pistol  missed  Jlre  ]  thanks  to  his  using  flints 
instead  of  percussion  caps.  Overcome  by  excitement,  the  old 
man  fell  back  in  his  seat.  lie  had  fainted.  M.  Utercliv 
unlocked  the  door,  and  had  the  Marquis  conveyed  to  his  cham- 
ber, to  which  a  brain-fever  confined  him  for  many  weeks. 
On  his  recovery,  Stephen  Utercliv  solicited  and  obtained  an 
interview.  He  succeeded  in  convincing  the  Marquis  that  ho 
was  neither  an  adventurer  nor  a  fortune-hunter,  but  the  only 
son  of  a  Polish  nobleman,  whose  family  had  settled  at  Vienna, 
on  the  first  partition  of  Poland,  in  1772,  and  was  not  inferior 
in  blood  or  wealth  to  the  Foscarini,  even  in  the  proudest  days 
of  Genoa.  A  great  change  had  passed  over  the  mind  of  the 
Marquis  during  his  recent  sufferings.  He  looked  back  on  the 
past  with  horror,  believing  that  his  previous  conduct  had 
exhibited  insanity  rather  than  any  other  motive;  a  belief 
shared  by  all  who  were  cognizant  of  the  circumstances.  As 
a  reparation,  he  not  only  consented  to  the  marriage  of  M. 
Utercliv  with  Teresa,  but  hastened  it  by  eveiy  means  in  his 
power.  Within  three  months,  therefore,  of  the  events  which 
I  have  related,  the  espousal  took  place  *,  and,  in  another  month 
— rather  happily,  I  think,  for  his  son-in-law — the  Marquis 
Bhufl3ed  off  this  mortal  coil.  So  ends  my  story.  As  I  knew 
the  parties,  I  can  vouch  for  the  survivors  being  now,  to  use  the 
words  of  one  of  the  narratives  which  charmed  us  in  youth, 


"  As  happy  as  the  day  is  long !" 


AN     EXPLANATION.  33*7 

If  any  of  the  readers  of  this  veracious  vohime  have  con- 
descended to  remark  that  its  author,  though  he  has  given 
stones  of  all  kinds  to  his  companions,  has  not  related  one  in 
his  own  individual  capacity,  it  is  only  proper  that  an  expla- 
nation should  be  given,  frankly  and  at  once.  The  fact,  then, 
is  simply  this :  The  author  has  the  misfortune  of  being  so 
remarkably  shy  in  society,  that  even  his  best  friends  grieve 
over  his  misfortune,  in  that  respect,  and  lament  that  his 
mauvaise  horde  should  so  utterly  nullify  his  companionable 
qualities.  In  addition  to  this  defect — which  he  has  vainly 
endeavoured  to  remedy,  by  often  kissing  the  Blarney  Stone, 
and  by  frequently  bathing  in  the  Shannon — he  i-s  troubled 
with  w^hat  Talleyrand,  speaking  of  somebody  else,  truly 
described  as  "  a  remarkable  talent  for  silence."  Indeed,  his 
most  intimate  friends  have  complained  that  they  scarcely 
knew  the  sound  of  his  voice :  "  Yes  "  and  "  No  "  beinof  the 
extent  of  his  conversation;  and  would  doubt  his  ability  to 
array  a  dozen  consecutive  words  in  a  sentence,  were  it  not 
that,  on  some  rare  occasions,  he  has  been  overheard  to  break 
into  soliloquy,  and,  when  he  thought  no  one  was  listening, 
say  a  variety  of  things  (evidently  intended  to  be  lively  or 
pathetic,  genial  or  satiric,  poetical  or  prosy),  which,  only  for 
his  extraordinary  bashfulness,  he  might  have  contributed,  in 
society,  as  his  share  of  its  conversational  capital. 

The  author's  silence,  amid  the  general  story-telling  is  then 
explained  ;  but  we  are  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  say  why  our  Irish 
friend,  Mr.  Moran,  should  also  have  contrived  to  listen  to  his 
neighbours'  stories,  yet  contribute  so  little  of  his  own.  I  had 
looked  on  him  as  good  for,  at  least,  half  a  score  of  Irish 
legends.     Not  so,  however. 

At  last,  being  pressed  for  his  contribution,  he  consented  to 
relate  the  last  tale  to  which  our  Divan  could  listen.     Very 

15 


338  TRESSILIAN. 

different  was  it,  in  all  respects,  from  what  we  had  expected 
from  bim.  However,  here  it  is — a  story  of  provincial  life  in 
England,  instead  of  rollicking  fun  and  frolic  in  the  Emerald 
Isle. 


THE     GREAT     WILL     CAUSE.  339 


THE  GREAT  WILL  CAUSE. 

The  village  of  Audley,  which,  George  Robins  the  auction- 
eer,* would  have  said,  "  is  delightfully  situated  within  an  easy 
distance  of  the  provincial  metropolis  of  a  highly-favoured  mid- 
land county,"  continues  to  rejoice  in  almost  as  primitive  sim- 
plicity as  distinguished  it  a  century  ago.  No  railway  runs 
in  narrow  length  within  its  vicinity ;  no  mail  coach  is  whirled 
through  its  one  street ;  not  even  a  humble  two  horse  stage  con- 
nects it  with  the  county  town.  Neither  has  it  any  peculiar 
manufacture  or  trade  to  distinguish  it.  A  country  village  it 
has  been  time  out  of  mind,  nor  do  I  wish  it  so  ill  as  to  hope 
that  modern  improvement  may  visit  and  spoil  it,  by  attempt- 
ing to  make  it  anything  more. 

The  inhabitants  of  Audley,  few  in  number,  have  carefully 
eschewed  politics — even  when  a  contested  election  sends  can- 
didates, and  canvassers,  and  gay  favours  among  them.  The 
few  voters  in  and  near  the  village — substantial  freeholders 
who 

"  Ne'er  have  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  their  place," 

have  usually  given  their  "  sweet  voices,"  to  the  Red  candidates 

*  Robins,  who  was  the  very  Napoleon  of  auctioneers,  ought  to  be  sketched,  for  the 
good  of  posterity,  before  all  living  memory  of  him  dies  away.  His  advertisements  were 
peculiar,  original  and  striking.  Once,  when  announcing  the  sale  of  an  estate,  hav- 
ing exhausted  the  hyperbole  of  praise,  he  concluded  thus  :  "It  must  be  confessed 
that  this  eartlily  paradise  hath  two  drawbacks — namely,  excess  of  melody  from  the 
Bongs  of  the  nightingale,  and  the  over-powering  perfume  from  the  crumpling  of  tho 
ro8C3." 


340  TRESSILIAy. 

because  the  owners  of  the  Audley  property  have  always  sup- 
ported that  interest ;  besides,  at  Audley,  red  ribbons  are  con- 
sidered as  extremely  becoming  to  all  complexions  and  eyes. — 
Bevond  this,  these  good  people  venture  not  upon  the  troubled 
sea  of  politics.  The  solitary  London  newspaper  from  the  Hall, 
descends  to  the  Marston  Arms  Inn,  the  only  hosteh'ie  in  the 
villao-e,  and  after  bein<y  duly  talked  over  there,  and  its  intelli- 
gence  duly  wondered  at  and  commented  upon,  passes  into  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Salt,  schoolmaster  and  parish-clerk — a  man  who 
knows  Latin,  algebra,  and  mensuration,  is  suspected  of  a  bow- 
inrr  acquaintance  with  the  characters  of  the  Greek  alphabet, 
and  is  known  to  be  tremendously  hen-pecked  by  his  pretty 
wife,  who  actually  cannot  write  her  own  name.  Mr.  Simon 
Salt  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  traveller  who  has  seen  the 
world,  having  once  paid  a  visit  to  London,  on  which  occasion, 
havino-  seen  William  IV.  go  iu  state  to  open  the  session  of 
Parliament,  his  Majesty  did  very  graciously  condescend  to 
bestow  sundry  bows  upon  liis  loving  subjects,  who  shouted 
while  the  cavalcade  passed  by,  and  the  worthy  and  erudite 
Simon  Salt,  whose  loyalty  had  exhibited  itself  in  a  very 
observable  and  unsophisticated  manner,  was  confident  that  his 
Majesty  did  pay  the  compliment  of  a  low  bow,  exclusively 
intended  for  him,  the  aforesaid  Simon  Salt.  Did  not  Audley 
greatly  rejoice  at  the  announcement  of  this  gratifying  infor- 
mation ?  Has  not  Audley,  ever  since,  been  loyally  proud  of 
the  lofty  and  disciiminating  courtesy  of  its  Sovereign  ?  lias 
it  not  full  cause  to  be  proud,  inasmuch  as  the  compliment  is 
reflected  upon  all  the  Audley-itcs,  seeing  that  the  excellent 
Mr.  Salt  ranks  in  public  station  only  lower  than  the  Vicar,  and 
is  universally  considered  as  the  sense-carrier  of  the  village? 

The  Hall — as  it  is  emphatically  called,  as  if  it  were  the 
only  Hall  in  the  county — has  always  exercised  as  much 
influence  over  the  primitive  people  of  Audley,  as  the  Court 


THE      GREAT     WILL     CAUSE.  341 

of  St.  James  does  over  the  world  of  fashion  in  London.  The 
owners  of  the  Hall  "  came  in  with  the  Conqueror,"  and  have 
held  Audley  Manor,  and  its  dependencies,  ever  since.  Seldom 
seduced  into  extravagance ;  deluded  neither  by  gambling, 
horse-racing,  electioneering,  nor  a  taste  for  building  ;  content 
to  reign  at  Audley,  rather  than  ruin  their  fortune  by  vain  com- 
petition with  superior  rank  and  wealth  elsewhere ;  satisfied 
with  being  able  to  make  the  proud  boast  that  more  than  once 
a  peerage  had  been  oflfered  and  declined,  the  Marstons  had 
been  happier,  perhaps,  than  most  private  families  in  the  king- 
dom. "  Live  and  let  live,"  was  their  rule  of  conduct  towards 
their  tenantry,  who,  holding  their  farms  at  low  rents,  wei-e 
able  to  make  their  payments  with  a  punctuality  which  most 
landlords  might  have  envied.  Thus,  Audley  was  one  of 
the  few  out-of-the-way,  old-fashioned  places  where  peace  and 
plenty  reigned  supreme,  where  politics  were  unheeded,  where 
pauperism  was  unknown,  where  the  keeper  of  "  the  cage " 
had  a  sinecure,  and  the  stocks  had  fallen  into  decay  from 
want  of  use. 

The  Marston  Arms  Inn,  at  Audley,  is  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque old  houses  you  ever  saw.  It  had  been  built — no  one 
knew  when.  It  had  been  enlarged  and  beautified  (as  was 
testified  by  the  date,  graven  on  a  square  stone  inserted  in  the 
ample  porch),  in  the  comparatively  recent  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
Those  who  have  seen  the  curious  gateway  which  leads  to  the 
Council  Ilouse  at  Shrewsbury,  will  readily  understand  what 
manner  of  house  was  this.  It  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
ancient  mode  of  building,  where  immense  beams  of  oak  tra- 
verse the  walls,  like  frame-work,  which  are  carefully  painted 
in  black  and  white,  as  may  yet  be  seen  in  some  old  houses  in 
the  midland  counties.  Innumerable  carvinofs  embellished  the 
edifice — some  grotesque  in  design,  some  fancifully  conceived 
in  the  true  spirit  of  the  Beautiful,  and  executed  with  delicate 
and  tasteful  manipulation.  The  roof,  which  presented  a  multi- 


342  '  TRESSILIAN. 

plicity  of  angles,  was  crowned  with  a  variety  of  small,  turret- 
like  prominences,  of  no  particular  order  of  architecture,  but 
uniting-  to  make  a  curious  whole.  The  garden  side  was  wholly, 
and  the  front  fa9ade  partially,  covered  with  ivy,  the  stem  of 
which  was  thick  as  the  body  of  a  stout  man,  over  which  ran 
quite  a  wilderness  of  flowering  creepers.  Within,  the  walls 
were  wainscoted  with  oak,  black  with  age  and  polished  as  mar- 
ble. Of  oak,  too,  were  the  transverse  beams  which  supported 
the  low  ceilings;  of  oak  were  the  floors;  of  oak  were  the  low, 
wide  stairs.  Time  had  hardened  the  timber,  so  that  you  might 
almost  as  easily  drive  a  nail  into  an  iron  wall,  as  into  one  of 
the  massive  beams.  The  windows,  consisting  of  small,  dia- 
mond panes,  were  enriched,  here  and  there,  with  fragments 
of  painted  glass,  through  which,  in  other  days,  a  "  dim,  reli- 
gious light "  had  been  cast  upon  the  grave  stones,  which 
literally  formed  the  flagging  of  Audley  Abbey,  now  in 
ruins. 

The  hostess  wa»  almost  as  old-fashioned  as  the  house.  She 
was  one  of  the  olden  school — a  maiden  who  had  arrived  at 
the  decorous  years  when,  having  increased  in  bulk  and  dig- 
nity, spinsters  wear  caps  with  flowing  lace  lappets,  and  long 
mittens,  and  prefix  Mistress  to  their  surnames.  Her  guests, 
for  the  time  being,  were  considered  by  her  as  part  of  her  own 
family.  The  greatest  insult  that  one  of  them  could  inflict, 
was  the  not  doing  full  justice  to  the  viands  she  prepared  for 
his  use.  The  pains  she  took  to  tempt  them  to  eat  and  drink 
heartily,  would  not  be  credited  by  any  London  innkeeper.  She 
was  uneasy  if  the  dinner  was  not  appetizing.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  allowed  no  one  to  drink  more  than,  in  her  judg- 
ment, was  quite  good  for  him.  On  Sundays,  the  rule  of  her 
Louse  was  that  her  guests  should  dine  with  her.  For  that 
repast,  she  would  dispense  some  particularly  old  and  curious 
port  wine,  with  a  perfume  like  a  bouquet,  which  (as  she  loved 
to  boast),  neither  love  nor  money  could  draw  from  her  cellar 


THE      GREAT     WILL      CAUSE.  343 

at  any  other  time.     "Woe  to  the  guest  who  proffered*  payment 
for  that  Sunday  dinner,  or  that  unequalled  wine. 

Mrs.  Lee,  however,  had  not  many  opportunities  of  thus 
exercising  her  hospitality,  for  Audley  was  not  much  visited  by 
strangers.  Now  and  then,  an  artist  or  an  antiquarian  came, 
and  remained  a  short  time.  Sometimes,  too,  it  was  visited  by 
some  disciples  of  Isaac  Walton.  Many  j^eople  wondered  why 
Mrs.  Lee  remained  in  business.  She  was  considered  a  wealthy 
woman,  who  could  well  afford  to  live  without  the  inn  ;  but  cus- 
tom, trifling  as  it  was,  and  a  liking  for  the  business,  kept  her  in 
the  old  house.  Besides,  as  she  said,  if  sAe  gave  it  up,  no  one  else 
would  take  it,  for  the  expenses  far  exceeded  the  receipts ;  and 
what  would  Audley  be  without  its  inn? 

At  length,  however,  a  few  years  ago,  Mrs.  Lee  was  made 
very  happy  by  the  arrival  and  continuance  of  a  guest.  This 
was  a  Mr.  Mavor,  who  had  come  to  Audley  to  try  his  skill,  as 
a  brother  of  the  angle,  in  a  fine  trout-stream,  running  through 
the  centre  of  the  estate.  There  was  no  difficulty,  through  his 
bustling  hostess,  in  getting  permission  to  fish  in  this  stream, 
and  the  only  mischance  was,  that  while  thus  engaged  one  day, 
a  sudden  and  severe  shower  of  rain  gave  him  a  severe  cold, 
which  ripened  by  neglect  into  a  really  dangerous  illness,  com- 
pelling him  to  remain  at  Audley  much  longer  than  he  had 
intended,  but  affording  worthy  Mrs.  Lee  an  opportunity  of 
exhibiting  her  unrivalled  powers  as  a  nurse. 

The  invalid  bad  so  nearly  recovered,  that  one  Sunday  after- 
noon, as  he  sat  enthroned  in  the  very  easiest  of  easy-chairs, 
in  her  own  sitting-room,  while  Mrs.  Lee  made  tea  for  him, 
she  endeavoured  to  impress  upon  his  mind  the  propriety,  as 
soon  as  he  was  quite  well,  of  returning  thanks  in  person,  for 
the  kindness,  which,  during  his  illness,  had  been  showered 
upon  him  from  The  Hall. 

"  Indeed,  Sir,"  quoth  she,  happy  at  having  fallen  in  with  an 


344  TRESSILIAN. 

attentive  listener,  "  'tis  not  to  be  mentioned  how  kind  Miss 
Marston  and  her  mother  have  been.  Every  morning,  Sir,  there 
was  a  servant  to  enquire  how  you  were — and  sometimes  the 
ladies  called  themselves,  if  they  came  to  the  village.  Then 
there  was  fruit  from  the  hot-house  and  the  garden,  jellies  and 
cordials  from  the  housekeeper's  room  ;  and  dainties  of  all  kinds, 
sucli  as  they  iiincied  a  sick  man  might  fancy  or  relish.  Indeed, 
Sir,  you  must  not  leave  Audley  without  going  to  The  Hall, 
and  thanking  them." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Lee,  I  suppose  I  must,  but  I  am  not  fond  of 
seeing  strangers,  nor  of  making  new  acquaintances." 

"Perhaps  not,  Mr.  Mavor,  but  these  are  ladies,  and  a  mere 
note  of  thanks  would  not  be  so  proper  for  them,  as  it  would 
be  for  gentlemen." 

"  There  is  no  gentleman  at  The  Hall  ?" 

"Not  one,  Sir.  The  Squire  died  three  years  ago.  Miss 
Marston  then  came  in  for  the  estate,  as  the  next  heir,  and  she 
and  her  mother  have  lived  there  ever  since.  Her  father  died 
many  years  ago." 

"Had  the  Squire,  as  you  call  him,  no  son  ?" 

"  Why,  Sir,  he  had,  and  he  had  not.  When  the  Squire 
■was  quite  a  young  man,  he  went  abroad  on  his  travels,  and 
did  not  return  for  many  years.  Indeed,  we  heard  that  he 
had  got  married  abroad ;  but  this  could  scarcely  be  true, 
because,  when  he  returned  at  last,  he  brought  no  wife  with 
him.  A  little  boy  in  arms  came  with  him,  but  as  his  nurse 
was  a  French  woman,  who  returned  home  before  she  could 
speak  our  language,  and  none  of  us  understood  hers,  wecould 
not  make  out  from  her  who  the  child's  mother  was.  How- 
ever, Sir,  the  Squire  called  him  Frank  Marston,  and,  indeed, 
you  had  only  to  look  in  his  face  and  see,  from  the  great  like- 
ness, that  he  was  the  Squire's  son.  When  the  lad  grew  up  a 
bit,  he  used  to  be  everlastingly  down  in  the  village.      Many 


THE      GREAT     WILL     CAUSE.  345 

and  many  a  time,  Sir,  has  he  sat  in  that  very  chair.  No  one 
could  help  loving  Master  Frank.  At  times  his  father  would 
be  very  fond  of  him,  and  tlien,  at  other  times,  he  would  look 
so  mournfully  into  the  lad's  face,  and  then  speak  to  him  quite 
pettishly  (as  if  he  was  afraid  of  getting  too  fond  of  the  boy), 
and  turn  into  his  library,  and  not  be  seen  for  days.  'Twas 
thought.  Sir,  that  he  had  something  heavy  on  his  mind.  At 
last,  when  Master  Frank  was  about  eleven  or  twelve,  as  well 
as  we  could  guess,  he  was  gent  to  one  of  the  great  public 
schools,  and  there  he  took  to  his  learning  in  a  remarkable 
manner,  and  carried  everything  before  him.  'Twas  the  same 
■way  when  he  went  to  College ;  he  had  only  to  try  for  a  prize, 
and  he  was  sure  to  get  it.  The  Squire,  who  knew  how 
fond  I  was  of  Master  Frank — did  I  tell  you.  Sir,  that  my 
mother  was  the  Squire's  nurse  ? — used  to  send  for  me  always 
when  the  news  came  of  his  getting  on  so  well  at  College,  and 
read  the  letters  to  me.  But  it  was  thought  odd,  that,  from 
the  time  he  left  the  Hall  for  school,  Master  Frank  was  never 
once  sent  for  to  see  the  Squire.  At  last,  when  he  was  pre- 
paring to  study  for  the  bar,  the  Squire  went  off',  in  a  great 
hurry,  to  see  him  in  London.  No  one  knows  what  passed, 
but  instead  of  jroinof  on  with  the  law,  Master  Frank  went 
away  to  travel  on  the  Continent.  He  used  very  often  to  write 
home,  and  nothing  did  the  Squire  more  good  than  a  lettei 
from  him.  Indeed,  I  thought  it  strange  than  he  should  grow 
fonder  and  fonder  of  him,  the  longer  he  was  away.  But  your 
cup  is  empty,  Sir ;  let  me  give  you  a  little  more  toast,  it  is 
beautifully  crisp,  and  I  think  some  of  this  comb-honey  would 
be  an  excellent  thing  for  your  throat." 

"  Thank  you.     It  is  very  nice — But  the  Squire  ?" 
"  Aye,  Sir — a  little  more  cream  ? — the  Squire    w-ent    off 
quite  suddenly.     They  found  him  on  the  library-floor,  in  a 
fit     Ho  was  taken  up  and  bled,  but  did  not  live  long.     He 

15* 


346  TRESSILIAN. 

spoke  just  a  few  minutes  before  lie  died,  and  said,  '  Every 
thing  for  ray  son  Frank.'  What  this  meant  no  one  knew ; 
and  when  his  papers  were  examined,  no  will  was  found.  So 
the  estate — 'tis  reckoned  as  fully  worth  twenty  thousand  a 
year — went  to  his  niece,  Miss  Emma  Marston,  and  all  the 
other  property  besides.  She  was  abroad  when  the  Squire 
died,  but  it  surely  was  a  great  thing  for  her — ^Try  another 
cup,  Sir." 

"  Has  there  been  no  whisper  of  Miss  Marston's  getting  mar- 
ried ?" 

"  At  first.  Sir,  many  gentlemen  were  spoken  of  as  being 
likely  for  her  to  marry — this  one,  because  their  properties 
joined — that  one,  because  it  seemed  that  they  had  been 
acquainted  in  youth — and  another,  because  it  pleased  himself 
to  report  that  she  was  all  but  engaged  to  him.  But  she  gave 
encouragement  to  none.  Just  now,  she  has  trouble  enough 
before  her,  poor  thing.  Only  think.  Sir,  of  Master  Frank's 
bringing  an  action  to  get  the  estate  from  her !  It  has  been 
quite  the  talk  of  the  country  of  late.  It  comes  on,  Sir,  at  the 
next  Assizes,  in  March  ;  but  I  know,  if  there's  law  or  justice, 
he  cannot  win.  She  has  done  all  the  good  she  could  to  every 
one  around  her,  and  the  very  ground  her  foot  touches  is  loved 
by  all  who  know  her.  It  is  a  hard  thing.  Sir,  for  Mr.  Frank 
to  claim  the  estate  !" 

"  Perhaps  it  may  seem  so ;  but  if  his  claim  be  good,  surely 
it  would  be  as  hard  to  keep  him  out  of  it  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir,  but  how  can  it  be  good?  He  says  that  he  is 
the  Squire's  lawful  son.  Very  good — but  who  was  his  mother, 
and  how  came  it  that  we  never  heard  of  her  ? — To  think  of 
Master  Frank  turning  out  so  !" 

"  Then  you  expected  better  from  him,  Mrs.  Lee  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  did.  And  there's  the  young  lady — as  beauti- 
ful as  an  angel,  and  with  a  voice  like  music — not  knowing 


THE      GREAT     WILI.     CAUSE.  34*7 

but  tliat  the  law  -will  tate  the  estate  from  her.  It  may  be 
law,  Sir,  but  it  is  not  justice.  I  only  wish  the  jury  was  picked 
from  this  part  of  the  country;  they'd  be  certain  to  give  her 
the  property,  and  transport  Master  Frank,  at  the  very  least. — 
The  Squire's  lawful  son,  indeed  !  I'd  like  to  know  how  he'd 
prove  it." 

Shortly  after  this  tea-table  gossip,  (which  I  have  given  in 
detail,  as  it  exhibits  pretty  correctly  how  matters  stood)  Mr. 
Mavor  proceeded  to  pay  his  visit  to  The  Hall.  There  he  was 
no  unwelcome  guest,  for  its  fair  mistress  instantly  recognized 
him  as  one  to  whom  she  owed  so  essential  a  service  as  the 
preservation  of  her  life.  It  had  chanced,  four  years  before, 
during  her  visit  to  Naples,  that  she  formed  one  of  a  pleasure 
party  who  set  forth  on  an  excursion  across  the  Bay.  The 
gentlemen  who  acted  as  mariners  on  that  occasion  contrived 
to  overset  one  of  the  boats,  and  Miss  Marston,  with  others  of 
the  party,  had  the  misfortune  to  be  cast  into  the  water.  Mr. 
Mavor,  who  was  close  at  hand  when  the  accident  occurred, 
jumped  from  his  own  boat  into  the  water,  and  succeeded  in 
rescuing  Miss  Marston,  who  escaped  without  any  other  ill 
effects  than  a  thorough  wetting.  The  travelling  arrangements 
of  her  friends  compelled  her  to  leave  Naples  so  speedily,  that 
her  preserver  had  but  few  opportunities  of  seeing  her.  They 
were  sufficient,  however,  to  interest  him  greatly  in  the  beauty 
and  grace  of  the  young  lady,  and  to  regret  that  fortune  had 
never  again  thrown  him  in  her  way.  He  had  not  the  slight- 
est idea,  often  as  he  had  heard  her  name,  during  his  recent 
illness,  as  the  owner  of  Audley,  that  she  was  the  same  Miss 
Marston  whom  he  had  met  in  Italy. 

What  followed  may  be  readily  imagined  by  all  who  know 
anything  of  the  gentle  lore  of  love.  The  acquaintance  thus 
renewed,  soon  blossomed  into  friendship,  and  ripened  into 
mutual  affection.     For  the  satisfaction  of  the  prudish,  we  beg 


348 


TRESSILIAN 


to  state  that,  after  all,  this  process  was  not  so  very  rapid.  It 
was  February  before  Mavor  quitted  Audley  (where  he  had 
been  Mrs.  Lee's  nominal  guest,  but  a  daily  visitor  at  The 
Hall),  and  assuredly  four  or  five  months'  constant  companion- 
ship, with  such  antecedents  as  there  were  in  this  instance,  is 
sufficient  to  make  a  gentleman  and  lady  acquainted  with  each 
other, 

Mavor  left  Audley,  assured,  with  her  mother's  fullest  con- 
currence, that  he  was  anything  but  hateful  to  EmmaMarston. 
T\'hen  she  frankly  informed  him  of  the  claim  which  Francis 
Marston  had  set  up  for  the  estate,  he  told  her,  somewhat  to 
her  surprise,  that,  for  his  own  part,  he  rather  hoped  the  claim- 
ant would  be  successful  :  adding,  when  he  saw  her  astonish- 
ment at  the  remark,  that,  if  she  lost  the  estate,  it  would  give 
him  the  opportunity  of  showing  how  very  sincerely  he  loved 
her  for  herself  alone. 

Then  they  parted.  Mavor  was  summoned  to  London,  by 
urgent  business,  but  promised  to  return  by  the  time  The 
Great  Will  Cause  as  it  was  called — though  there  actually 
was  no  will  in  question — was  to  be  decided. 

Dwellers  in  London  have  no  idea  of  the  importance  of  the 
Assizes  to  people  in  the  country.  Everything  connected  with 
them  is  of  moment — from  the  appointment  of  High  Sheriflf  to 
the  trial  of  prisoners  and  causes.  Twice  a  year  the  Assizes 
bring  the  magnates  of  the  county  into  the  principal  town, 
where,  if  nought  else  be  the  result,  their  wives  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeinof  the  new  fashions,  that  is,  those  which  were 
new  in  London  three  months  before;  of  vying  with  their 
neighbours  in  the  petty  ambition  of"  cutting  a  dash  ;"  in  short, 
of  breaking  for  a  time  the  monotony  of  a  country  life.  The 
county  magistrates  frequently  visit  the  county  town  whenever 
the  Quarter  Sessions  are  held,  but  their  wives  and  daughters 
rarely  r>-o  thither,  save  at  Assize  time,  or  on  the  occurrence  of 


THE      GREAT     WILL     CAUSE.  349 

some  great  event — such  as  a  Musical  Festival,  the  Races,  a 
Fancy  Fair,  or  an  Archery  fete. 

For  the  Assizes,  too,  the  inhabitants  of  the  town  make  ample 
preparations.  Painters  are  employed  to  refresh  the  external 
appearance  of  shops,  oflBces  of  business,  and  dwelling-houses. 
The  tradesmen  then  increase  their  stock,  (if  their  cash  or 
credit  enables  them  to  do  so,)  and  display  it  to  the  best 
advantage.  Professional  men  are  busy  in  preparing  for  Coun- 
sel those  lengthy  documents  ironically  called  "  briefs."  The 
interiors  of  all  houses,  in  good  situations,  are  brushed  up,  to 
prepare  them  as  lodgings  during  the  Assize-week,  The  very 
streets,  dirty  enough  on  ordinary  occasions,  are  swept  clean, 
"  for  this  occasion  only,  and  by  particular  desire."  All  classes 
are  on  the  qui  vive  for  the  Assizes.  The  very  prisoners  in 
the  gaol,  to  whom  suspense  is  often  worse  than  actual  suffer- 
ing, are  not  sorry  to  know  that  the  time  is  come  when,  if  they 
have  good  fortune  and  good  lawyers,  they  may  have  one 
more  chance  of  renewing  their  acquaintance  with 

"  The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty." 

Let  us  now  suppose  that  the  time  has  arrived  for  holding 
the  Lent  Assizes  for  the  county  in  which  Audley  is  situated. — 
The  Judges,  "  learned  in  the  law,"  have  made  their  stately 
entry  into  the  county  town,  accompanied  by  the  High  Sheriff, 
and  escorted  by  his  Javelin-men.  The  Commission  has  been 
opened  in  court — the  Assize  Sermon  has  been  preached — the 
Grand  Jury  has  been  impanneled — the  Royal  Proclamation 
against  Vice  and  Lnmoralitv  has  been  read — the  Judo-e's 
Charge  to  the  Grand  Jury  has  been  delivered — the  Petit  Jury 
has  been  sworn  in — Bills  of  indictment  have  been  sent  up  to 
the  Grand  Jury — a  "true  bill"  has  been  speedily  returned — 
and  the  arraignment  of  the  accused  takes  place. 

Alas !  what  anxious  moments  have  the  prisoners  who  await 


350  TRESSILIAN. 

their  trials.  What  a  tell-tale  is  the  human  countenance,  when 
we  see  it  in  the  dock !  What  a  wild,  dazed  look  does  the 
accused  cast  around  him  when  he  first  emerges  into  daylight 
and  the  gaze  of  the  crowd,  from  the  dark  passages  beneath 
the  Court !  How  anxiously  does  he  glance  around,  to  see 
whether  amid  all  that  sea  of  faces,  there  be  even  one  which  he 
can  recognize — which  has  anything  like  sympathy  in  its 
expression  !  How  he  shrinks  or  brightens  as  his  glance  falls 
upon  somebody  whom  he  has  cause  to  fear  or  love.  Then, 
what  an  affectation  of  unconcern  as  the  Crown  Counsel  recapi- 
tulates the  particulars  of  the  case,  carefully  distinguishing 
what  is  fact,  from  what  is  presumption,  but  ingeniously  sup- 
plying the  deficiency  of  actual  by  the  corroborative  evidence 
of  circumstantial  proof.  Then,  as  the  witnesses  touch  the  head 
of  the  accused  man  with  the  Crier's  rod,  how  sudden  the 
involuntary  shrinking  of  the  frame — how  spasmodic  the  uncon- 
trollable working  of  the  features  !  He  is  aware  of  that — he 
fears  that  it  may  have  a  bad  effect  upon  the  jury — he  endea- 
vors to  remove  the  impression  by  assuming  an  air  of  indif- 
ference— he  may  even  affect  to  smile,  as  if  in  pity  for  the 
witness's  mistake — or,  conscience-smitten,  he  may  be  stupefied 
or  confounded  by  the  recognition.  For  the  first  time,  then, 
in  his  course  of  crime,  he  may  feel  that  there  is  an  Eye  which 
Beeth  in  darkness;  an  Intelligence  which  pierces  through  the 
human  concealments,  in  which  guilt  adroitly  enwraps  itself; 
a  justice  from  above,  which  will  not  permit  that  guilt  to  be 
undiscovered  and  unpunished. 

Suppose  that  the  case  is  one  where  the  prisoner  is  accused 
of  Murder — almost  the  only  crime  for  which  capital  punish- 
ment is  now  inflicted.  How  intense  the  interest  which  is 
kept  up  during  the  whole  trial !  How  the  spectators,  every 
now  and  then,  as  a  strong  point  comes  out  in  evidence,  turn 
to  look  at  the  accused  and  watch  what  impression  it  makes 


THE      GREAT     WILL     CAUSE.  351 

on  him.  How  earnestly  does  every  one  listen  while  the  defence 
is  proceeding.  How  hushed  the  silence  which  precedes  the 
summing-up  of  evidence  by  the  Judge.  How  calmly,  how 
dispassionately,  nay,  how  mercifully,  (for  the  Judge  is  pre- 
sumed to  be  Counsel  for  the  accused)  does  he  sift  the 
testimony  of  the  witnesses,  compare  conflicting  statements, 
point  out  what  links  in  the  chain  of  evidence  are  weak  or 
wanting,  notice  where  the  charge  has  been  rebutted,  declare 
in  what  particulars  it  has  been  proved,  and  finally  desire  the 
jury,  if  they  have  any  doubt,  to  give  the  accused  the  benefit 
of  it,  and  pronounce  his  acquittal.  Then,  how  awful  the  inter- 
val between  the  Judge's  summing-up,  and  the  delivery  of  the 
verdict  I  As  we,  who  look  on,  count  time,  the  space  is  but  a 
few  minutes,  but  to  the  wretched  man  at  the  bar,  whose  life 
is  in  the  scale, 

"  Moments  like  to  these 
Kend  men's  lives  into  Immortalities." 

What  a  sudden  lull — what  a  ceasing  of  hushed  whispers — 
what  a  holding  of  the  breath,  as  the  foreman  turns  round,  and 
hands  in  the  fatal  scroll.  What  a  pang,  what  an  agony  of  des- 
pair thrills  coldly  through  the  prisoner's  frame,  as,  listening 
with  his  very  eyes,  as  it  were,  he  hears  the  word  Guilty,  uttered, 
as  the  verdict.  That  one  word,  carelessly  pronounced  by  the 
oflBcer  of  the  Court,  has  a  terrible  significance  for  the  pri- 
soner. It  tells  him,  as  with  a  voice  of  pealing  thunder,  that 
his  days  are  nigh    their    close. 

When  the  last  hour  of  the  rich  man  approaches,  he 
is  carefully  prepared  for  the  tidings  that  his  time  has 
nearly  run ;  cautiously,  and  by  degrees,  the  intelligence 
is  broken  to  him — friends  soothe  his  dying  moments — 
aSection  smooths  his  pillow — the  minister  of  religion  gently 
leads  his  thoughts  to  the  better  land,  where  he  is  to  meet  the 
loved  in  life,  "  not  lost,  but  gone  before."     But  that  verdict  of 


352      '  TRESSILIAN. 

the  jury! — it  breaks,  without  alleviation  or  preparation,  on 
the  startled  mind.  There  is  no  doubt — no  soft  lano-uaofe  to 
cheat  with  hope,  even  against  hope — no  sorrowing  regret — no 
gentle  consolation  ;  only  the  one  word,  "  (7ui7/?/,"  which  tears 
the  husband  from  the  wife,  severs  the  father  from  his  children, 
takes  the  son  from  his  widowed  mother.  lie  may  have 
oSended,  beyond  human  forgiveness,  against  the  laws  of  hea- 
ven and  earth,  which  are  the  safe-guard  of  civilized  society, 
but  to  the  wife,  the  children,  the  parent,  that  rugged,  guilty 
man,  may  have  been  affectionate  and  kind.  He  must  leave 
them  now — with  no  legacy  but  that  of  a  dishonoured  name  : 
no  memory  save  that  of  ignominy.  It  would  seem  a  pitiful 
thing  for  any  man,  however  guilty,  to  have  such  a  sudden 
doom — but  lenity  to  him  would  he  injustice  to  others.  That 
man  must  die. 

Then  comes  the  sentence  of  the  law,  delivered  bv  the  Juda:e. 
The  condemned  man  is  asked  whether  he  has  anything  to  say, 
why  that  sentence  should  not  be  passed  upon  him.  There  is 
no  reply  ;  or,  perhaps,  a  few  wild  words,  denying  the  guilt 
■which  has  been  unquestionably  proved,  or  supplicating  the 
mercy  that  cannot  be  extended  to  him  on  this  side  of  the 
grave.  Meanwhile,  the  fetal  black  cap  has  been  placed  upon 
the  Judge's  head.*  No  need,  now,  for  the  Crier  to  command 
silence.  It  comes  unbidden.  The  fall  of  a  pin  upon  the  floor 
would  be  audible  in  that  dreary  stillness.  The  Judge  speaks, 
his  voice  is  low,  little  more  than  a  whisper,  but  it  is  heard 
in  even  the  remotest  corner  of  that  vast  and  crowed  Court. — 
You  hear  a  man — aged,  it  may  be,  and  worn  with  ill-health 
and  mental  labor — solemnly  condemning  to  a  sudden  and 
shameful  death,  another  man  in   the  full  bloom  of  youth,  in 

*In  England  and  Ireland,  previous  to  his  pronouncing  sentence  of  Death  upon 
a  criminal,  a  square  blaclj  cap  is  placed  upon  the  head  of  the  judge,  by  an  officer 
of  the  Court.    It  increases  the  sad  solemnity  of  the  scene. 


THE      GREAT      WILL      CAUSE.  353 

the  full  enjoyment  of  health.  If  a  savage  were  to  he  present, 
he  could  not  understand  it.  He  knows  how  a  man  full  of 
anger,  athirst  for  what  Lord  Bacon  called  "  the  wild  Justice 
of  Revenge,"  will  have  blood  for  blood  ;  but  to  see  that  aged 
man,  with  a  stern  gravity  on  his  wrinkled  brow,  with  faltering 
speech,  with  gasping  breath,  even  with  tears  gliding  down  those 
furrowed  cheeks,  dooming  that  strong  man  to  die,  and  the  strong 
man  patiently  listening  to  him,  without  making  any  attempt  to 
escape  ;  that  is  peculiar  to  Civilization,  and  painful  though  it  be, 
is  one  of  the  safeguards  of  Society. 

Hark !  as  the  Judge  concludes,  a  shriek  rings  through  the 
Court.  Is  it  the  despairing  cry  of  the  doomed  one's  wife,  or 
mother,  or  daughter  ?  No,  it  is  only  a  high-pressure  lady, 
who  having  waited  until  the  close  of  the  impressive  tragedy, 
has  gone  off  in  hysterics.  What,  in  the  name  of  decency  and 
delicacy,  do  women  want  out  of  their  proper  places,  in  a  Court 
of  Law  ?  Why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  rational,  are  they 
not  peremptorily  ordered  out  of  Court,  unless  they  have 
actual  business  there  as  parties  or  witnesses  ?" 

It  is  in  the  Nisi  Prius,  and  not  in  the  Crown  Court,  that 
the  Great  Will  Cause,  from  which  I  have  deviated  a  little,  is 
to  be  tried.  It  is  a  Special  Jury  Case,  the  only  one  at  the 
Assizes,  and  has  excited  a  great  sensation,  not  only  through- 
out the  country,  but  at  the  bar.  Mr.  Shaw,  one  of  the  ablest 
lawyers  of  the  day,  has  been  brought  down  "  special  "  for  the 
defendant.  Not  that  her  attorney  has  any  apprehension  of 
the  result,  but  a  property  such  as  is  at  stake  must  not  be 
perilled  by  the  want  of  the  best  advocacy  that  money  can 
procure.  Knowing,  also,  that  to  give  men  an  interest  in  a 
cause,  their  interest  must  be  consulted,  the  shrewd  attorney 
has  marked  heavy  fees  upon  Counsel's  briefs.  Mr  Lennox,  a 
man  of  some  reputation  and  standing  on  the  Circuit,  holds  a 
brief  with  Mr.  Shaw  ;  and  a  junior  barrister  is  engaged  with 


S54  TRESSILIAN. 

these  two,  not  because  he  is  required,  but  because  it  is  the 
etiquette  when  a  Counsel  comes  down  specially,  to  have  a  third 
to  open  the  pleadings,  and  conduct  the  examination  of  unimpor- 
tant witnesses. 

On  the  other  hand,  no  particular  preparations  appear  to 
have  been  made  on  behalf  of  the  plaintiff.  His  Counsel  are 
two  ffentlemen  belono-ing;  to  the  Circuit,  neither  of  whom  has 
yet  had  the  opportunity  of  distinguishing  himself.  What 
■with  the  general  feeling  against  him,  as  one  who  has  brought 
a  vexatious  suit  against  a  woman — with  the  admitted  disad- 
vantage of  being  opposed  by  such  lawyers  as  Shaw  and  Lennox 
— and  with  the  misfortune  of  being  personally  unknown  in  the 
county,  the  plaintiff  is  generally  considered  as  a  man  without 
any  chance  of  success.  Already,  bets  are  freely  offered  (not 
taken  because  of  "  the  glorious  uncertainty  of  the  law,")  twenty 
— fifty — a  hundred  to  one  against  him. 

The  day  of  trial  has  arrived.  The  Special  Jury,  taken  from 
among  the  leading  gentlemen  of  the  county,  are  duly  sworn 
in.  The  Court  is  crowded.  Now  and  then  a  whisper  is  heard, 
as  some  lady  is  favoured  with  a  seat  near  the  judge,  "  Is  that 
the  defendant  ?"  No,  Miss  Marston  and  her  mother  are  not 
in  Court.  They  await  the  issue  at  the  Royal  Oak  Inn,  and 
one  of  them,  at  least,  does  not  want  kind  words  to  cheer  her, 
for  Mr.  Mavor  sits  by  the  side  of  his  affianced,  and  both  of  them, 
though  anxious,  are  the  reverse  of  alarmed  or  unhappy. 

The  junior  Counsel  for  the  Plaintiff,  "in  the  cause  Doe  on 
the  demise  of  Marston  v.  Marston,"  opens  the  pleadings  and 
states  that  in  this  case  Francis  Marston  is  the  plaintiff,  and 
Emma  Marston  the  defendant ;  that  the  declaration  is  in  eject- 
ment to  recover  possession  of  the  Manor  of  Audley  in  the 
county  of  Salop,  containing  divers  messuages  and  lands,  with 
the  rights  and  appurtenances  thereto  belonging ;  also  the 
manorir;l  rights,  tithes  of  corn,  grain,  hay,  &c.,  within   the 


THE      GREAT      WILL      CAUSE.  355 

said  Manor  ;  as  also  the  rectory  of  the  parish  church  of  Audley, 
as  aforesaid,  toorether  with  the  small  tithes  therein  ;  also  divers 
messuages,  cottages,  and  buildings  in  the  county  aforesaid  ; 
out  of  all  which  premises  it  was  alleged  that  the  defendant 
had  ejected  the  plaintiff,  and  wrongfully  kept  him  out  of  pos- 
session of  the  same.     This  was  the  question  for  the  Jury  to  try. 

The  Plaintiff's  senior  Counsel  then  briefly  stated  the  case 
to  the  Jury  to  the  following  effect :  that,  when  residing  in 
France,  the  late  Sacheveral  Marston  had  married  Emilie 
Latour  ;  that  when  this  marriage  took  place,  his  father  was 
still  alive,  and  it  was  therefore  considered  prudent  to  conceal 
it  for  a  time ;  that  the  husband  was  induced,  by  circum- 
stances which  then  seemed  "  strong  as  proof  of  Holy  Writ,"  to 
suspect  the  fidelity  of  his  wife ;  that,  on  being  made  acquainted 
w'ith  these  suspicions,  she  had  quitted  him,  indignant  at 
having  been  doubted,  and  too  proud  to  vindicate  herself;  and 
that  the  plaintiff,  Francis  Marston,  was  the  legitimate  offspring 
of  this  marriao^e. 

The  examination  of  witnesses  followed.  The  first  was  the 
aged  clergyman,  who,  thirty  years  before,  had  solemnized  the 
marriage,  and  whose  certificate,  dated  and  given  at  the  time 
to  the  plaintiff's  mother,  he  identified.  Then  were  produced 
two  witnesses  of  the  marriage,  one  of  them  being  the  bonne, 
or  nurse,  who  had  attended  on  the  plaintiff'  from  the  time  of 
his  birth,  and  had  brought  him,  when  a  child,  to  England. — 
Other  evidence  was  adduced,  to  prove  that  the  plaintiff  was 
the  legitimate  son  of  the  late  owner  of  the  Audley  estate. — 
Letters  from  him  to  the  plaintiff  were  put  in,  shown  to  be  in 
his  hand-writing,  in  which  he  repeatedly  and  strongly  acknow- 
ledged plaintiff's  legitimacy,  admitted  his  conviction  that  all 
suspicions  of  his  mother's  purity  had  been  most  unfounded, 
and  besought  him  to  seek  her  out,  that  she  might  come  to 
England,  and  receive  the  tardy  justice  of  having  her  innocence 


356  TRESSILIAN. 

declared,  and  her  riglits  recognized.  Not  even  the  ingenuity 
of  Mr.  Shaw,  unrivalled  in  cross-examination,  nor  the  shrewd 
ability  of  Mr.  Lennox,  could  shake  the  testimony,  so  direct 
Avas  it,  so  pLiin,  so  simple.  Inch  by  inch,  however  they 
fought  to  the  last,  long  after  the  Judge  had  hinted  his  opinion 
that  the  plaintifi''s  case  had  been  fully  proved.  Without  leav- 
ing their  box,  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  for  the  plaintiff, 
and  every  one  felt  that  their  decision  was  a  proper  one. 

Great  was  the  astonishment  of  the  public,  when,  within 
three  weeks  after  this  important  decision,  the  fashionable 
department  of  a  London  morning  paper  contained  the  foUow- 
in<r  announcement :  "  We  understand  that  Francis  Marston, 
Esq.,  of  Audley,  in  county  of  Salop,  will  immediately  be 
married  to  his  cousin  Emma,  only  daughter  of  the  late  Rev. 
F.  Marston.  Our  readers  may  recollect,  that  the  parties  in 
question  recently  figured  at  Shrewsbery  assizes,  as  plaintiff 
and  defendant,  in  the  great  Will  cause,  Marston  v.  Marston. 
We  are  in  possession  of  the  romantic  incidents  connected  with 
these  approaching  nuptials.  The  delicacy  by  which  we  are 
invariably  actuated  prevents  our  now  entering  into  detail, 
further  than  to  say — '  Truth  is  stranger,  stranger  than  fiction.' " 

It  was  even  so.  On  the  very  evening  of  the  day  on  which 
the  trial  had  dispossessed  Emma  Marston  of  all  her  property, 
and  when  ninety -nine  out  of  every  hundred  who  bestowed  a 
passing  thought  upon  her,  believed  that  she  was  breaking  her 
heart  at  the  loss,  that  young  lady  was  in  excellent  spirits,  hav- 
inf/-  listened  to  certain  disclosures  from  Mr.  Mavor,  whom 
it  is  hifh  time  to  introduce  as  Fi-ancis  Marston,  Esq.,  the 
successful  suitor  in  the  courts  of  law  and  love. 

"  My  father,"  said  he,  "  married  when  he  was  abroad,  and, 
hesitatino-  to  communicate  this  circumstance  to  his  father 
(whom  he  knew  to  be  anxious  for  his  union  with  the  daughter 
of  an  old  friend  in  England,  and  very  decided  in  his  dislike 


THE      GREAT     WILL     CAUSE.  357 

to  Catholics,  of  whom  my  mother  happened  to  be  one),  deter- 
mined to  conceal  it  altogether.  My  mother,  a  gay,  lively, 
attractive  Frenchwoman,  was  unsuited  to  her  husband,  a  inan 
of  grave  disposition,  and  fonder  of  literary  seclusion  than  of 
pleasure.  She  had  high  birth,  high  endowments,  high 
spirit.  She  constantly  complained  of  the  doubtful  position 
in  which  she  was  placed  by  her  marriage  not  being  publicly 
acknowledged.  At  length,  my  father  was  induced  to  suspect 
her  fidelity,  and  she  was  too  proud  to  condescend  to  explain 
or  vindicate  her  conduct.  She  abruptly  quitted  him,  leaving 
me  to  his  protection,  and  all  search  after  her  was  in  vain. — ■ 
No  wonder  that  it  was ;  for,  disgusted  with  the  world,  and 
severely  wounded  by  the  distrust  and  suspicions  of  the  hus- 
band, for  whom  she  had  sacrificed  her  youth  and  heart,  she 
retired  to  Italy,  where  she  became  the  inmate  of  a  convent. — • 
There  she  lingered  for  many  years,  though  she  never  took  the 
veil ;  and  thence,  on  her  death-bed,  addressed  a  letter  to  my 
father,  aff'ording  him  irresistible  proofs  that  he  had  greatly 
wronged  her,  and  earnestly  entreating  him  to  do  her  late  justice, 
by  acknowledging  their  marriage,  and,  if  he  had  not  already 
done  so,  by  proclaiming  my  legitimacy.  She  knew  that  my 
father  had  adopted  me,  and  appealed,  in  the  strongest  terms, 
to  his  sense  of  justice.  "When  this  letter  arrived,  my  father 
immediately  proceeded  to  London,  where  I  then  was ;  laid  it 
before  me,  explained  every  circumstance  of  his  early  life,  and 
enjoined  nie  to  proceed,  without  delay,  to  Italy,  whither  his 
own  ill  health  would  not  permit  him  to  go ;  to  seek  out  my 
mother,  to  supplicate  her  pardon  for  him,  to  make  every 
endeavour,  and  use  every  persuasion,  to  prevail  on  her  to  come 
to  Eno-land,  where  the  acknowledgment  she  was  entitled  to 
should  be  most  publicly  made :  or  if,  as  he  apprehended,  I 
should  arrive  too  late,  to  obtain  the  fullest  proofs  of  the  mar- 
riage, for  he  had  quitted  France  so  suddenly,  that  he  had  not 


858  TRESSILIAN. 

been  able  to  procure  them,  had  lie  even  wished,  at  that  time, 
to  retain  such  evidence  of  what,  promising  him  much  happi- 
ness, had  thrown  a  blight  upon  his  whole  course  of  life. 

"  I  can  scarcely  account  for  the  caprice  which  made  ,me 
resolve,  while  executing  my  father's  commands,  not  to  bear 
his  name.  One  reason  was,  that  as  I  should  have  to  hold 
intercourse  with  my  mother's  family,  I  was  unwilling  to  appear 
before  them  beaiing  the  name  of  him  who  had  so  deeply 
wionged  her.  I  assumed  the  name  of  Mavor,  and  thus  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Count  de  Latour,  my  mother's  brother. 
When  I  found  myself  decidedly  a  favourite,  I  stated  who  I  was, 
and  what  my  mission.  I  learned  that  I  had  arrived  too  late. 
My  mother  had  died  soon  after  writing  that  letter  which  had 
awakened  "  the  late  remorse  of  love"  in  her  husband's  heart. — 
Her  family  were  anxious  to  clear  her  fame  ;  and  the  Count  and 
myself  proceeded  to  Italy,  to  search  among  her  papers  for  the 
proofs  of  the  marriage.  "VVe  were  in  this  pursuit  when  I 
first  saw  you  at  Naples.  For  a  long  time,  we  could  not  find  the 
clergyman  who  celebrated,  nor  the  witnesses  who  were  pre- 
sent at,  the  marriage.  In  the  interim,  my  father  died — died, 
too,  without  having  made  the  acknowledgment  that  he  had 
married  Emilie  Latour,  and  that  I  was  their  son.  The 
estates  descended  to  you  as  heir-at-law ;  and  I  can  only 
wonder  at  my  dulness  in  not  having  surmised  that  you, 
whom  I  had  met  at  Naples,  were  the  Miss  Marston  against 
whom,  when  our  proofs  were  all  complete  and  collected,  the 
duty  I  owed  alike  to  my  mother's  memory  and  to  my  own 
position,  compelled  me  to  take  law  proceedings. 

"  Of  the  success  of  the  suit,  I  never  entertained  any  doubt. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  lay  the  evidence  before  you,  confident 
that  you  would  not  resist  my  claims,  if  you  saw  how  well- 
founded  they  were.  With  this  view,  I  proceeded  to  Audley 
There,  being  attacked  by  illness,  the  kindness  I,  a  stranger 


THE      GREAT      WILL      CAUSE.  359 

received  from  you,  made  me  more  than  ever  anxious  to  spare 
you  the  surprise  and  expense  of  the  trial.  I  saw  you.  I 
recognized  you  as  ray  Naples  acquaintance  of  whom  I  had  ofteu 
thought,  I  found  myself  more  and  more  interested  in  you. 
I  then  resolved,  that  I  might  avoid  the  worldly  imputation 
of  having  sought  you  for  your  fortune,  to  run  into  the  opposite 
extreme.  It  was  imperative,  too,  publicly  to  vindicate  my 
mother's  fame,  to  fulfil  my  father's  wishes.  I  have  done  so. 
I  am  ready,  my  dearest  Emma,  if  I  have  deprived  you  of  a 
fortune,  to  return  it  to  you — burthened,  it  is  true,  with 
myself" 

The  offer  was  frankly  made,  was  frankly  accepted.  Is  it 
requisite  to  prolong  the  story,  and  describe  how  the  mar- 
riage was  celebrated  ?  No ;  let  it  suffice  to  know  that  the 
cousins  lost  as  little  time  as  possible  in  returning  to  Audley  : 
that  the  nuptials  were  solemnized  amid  the  good  wishes  and 
blessings  of  all  who  had  experienced  Miss  Marston's  kindness, 
while  owner  of  the  estate:  that  Mrs.  Lee  had  the  Marston 
Arms  magnificently  painted  and  gilt,  in  honor  of  the  union, 
but  vowed  that  she  could  scarcely  forgive  "  Master  Frank," 
for  not  having  told  her  who  he  was  :  and  that  as  much  hap- 
piness as  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  married  mortals,  is  enjoyed 
by  the  Plaintifi"  and  Defendant  in  The  Great  Will  Cause. 


360  TRESSILIAN. 


This  was  the  last  story  related  in  our  Divan  at  Matlock. 
We  were  grieved  to  separate,  but  it  was  unavoidable.  So,  our 
party  and  its  members  took  a  farewell  stroll  about  Matlock, 
which  they  were  so  soon  to  leave.  Tressilian  and  myself 
went  together,  and  he  then  suggested  that,  as  I  had  short- 
hand notes  of  the  spoken,  and  could  obtain  copies  of  the  writ- 
ten, stories  which  we  had  heard,  it  might  be  practicable — with 
sufficient  disguise  and  concealment  of  circumstances  and  names 
— to  make  a  book  of  the  whole.  On  him,  therefore,  must  rest 
the  onus  of  my  thus  inflicting  our  Matlock  sayings  and  doings 
on  a  pensive  public. 

When  I  had  agfreed  to  act  on  his  hint,  we  went  into  Vail- 
ance's  Museum,  where  there  then  presided  a  nymph. 

"  Who  seemed  to  flatter 
Mankind  with  her  dark  eyes  for  looking  at  her," 

and  thence  he  presented  me  with  an  inkstand,  curiously 
fashioned  out  of  Blue  John  (or  fluor  spar),  which  I  have  care- 
fully preserved  to  this  day,  the  only  drawback  being  that  it  is 
much  too  beautiful  for  use.  I  accepted  it  as  a  sort  of  pledge 
that  I  would  become  the  historiographer  of  our  party.  Hero 
is  the  task  accomplished  ! 

We  dined  to^rether,  for  the  last  time,  and  when  that  meal 
was  ended,  the  day  was  nearly  ended  also.  The  evening  was 
BO  beautiful  that  it  appeared  a  sort  of  sin  not  to  take  advan- 
tage of  it.  We  broke  up  our  sitting,  therefore,  and  betook 
ourselves  into  the  open  air.  Looking  westward,  when  we  had 
strolled  on  the  road  as  far  as  the  toll-bar  near  Matlock  Bridge 
— from  which,  turning  around,  the  High  Tor  is  seen  in  all  his 


THE     ROMANCE     OF     LIFE.  361 

majesty — I  do  not  think  that  I  had  ever   beheld  a  more 
glorious  sunset, 

"  And  there  was  still  where  Day  had  set 

A  flush  that  spoke  him  loth  to  die— 
A  last  link  of  his  glory  yet, 

Blending  together  earth  and  sky." 

The  gentle  influence  of  the  scene  and  hour  had  its  eSect 
upon  others  than  myself,  and,  as  Lady  Tressilian  leant  upon 
my  arm,  she  indicated  by  a  glance  that  she  was  aware  of  my 
knowledge  of  the  condition  of  affairs  between  Lady  Morton 
and  the  Major,  and  gaily  smiled  as  she  perceived  that  I 
watched,  with  some  interest,  how  much,  "  the  world  forgetting, 
by  the  world  forgot,"  they  walked  and  talked  apart,  or  rather 
how  eagerly  the  lady  listened  while  the  gentleman  was 
impressively  addressing  her. 

"  It  appears  '  a  palpable  hit,' "  said  L  "  The  lady's  shaft  has 
struck  down  its  quarry." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  see  that  it  has,"  was  the  reply.  "  Yet, 
I  have  had  some  difEculty  in  bringing  the  affair  to  this  con- 
clusion. You  know  that  Lady  Morton  and  the  Major  have 
met  before  ?  Last  autumn,  they  formed  acquaintance  at 
Weisbaden,  and  I  understand  that  the  gentleman  was  imme- 
diately and  unequivocally  smitten.  Nor  did  it  appear,  that 
his  attentions  were  indifferently  received  by  my  fair  friend. — ■ 
Two  or  three  months  passed  on,  during  which,  thrown  much 
together  amid  strangers,  they  became  more  intimate  than  they 
could  have  been,  under  oi'dinary  circumstances,  during  two 
or  three  London  seasons.  The  Major,  it  is  true,  had  not  yet 
proposed — waiting,  I  presume,  until  a  longer  acquaintanceship 
might  warrant  his  doing  so,  but  I  fancy  that  he  had  not  much 
reason  to  fear  that  his  suit  would  be  very  unfavourably 
received.  To  use  the  language  of  his  own  profession,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  trying  a  little '  sapping  and  mining,'  before 

16 


362  TRE  S  S  I  LI  A  N  .  ■ 

he  ventured  '  to  storm  the  citadel.'  Just  at  that  juncture, 
Lady  Morton  allowed  herself  to  be  very  causelessly  piqued 
with  him  on  some  trifling  account.  That  gallant  gentleman 
— unreasonable,  like  all  his  sex — did  not  take  the  trouble  of 
thinking  that  a  woman  seldom  exhibits  such  a  pique,  unless 
her  heart  be  interested.  He  was  too  proud — too  independent 
to  explain,  and  the  result  was,  that  they  separated  rather 
hastily,  without  the  intention  at  that  time,  of  again  renewing 
their  acquaintance." 

"  Quite  a  romance,"  said  I — "  the  usual  diflBculties  which 
distract  the  course  of  true  love." 

"There  is  romance,  more  or  less,  in  all  aflfairs  of  the 
heart,"  re])lied  Lady  Tressilian,  "  and  even  more,  perhaps, 
after  the  first  bloom  of  youth  has  gone  by  than  while  it  con- 
tinues. For  instance,  though  our  friend  the  Major  is  beyond 
the  age  of  forty,  and  Lady  Morton  has  turned  the  sharp  cor- 
ner of  thirty,  their  affection  will  probably  be  deeper  and  more 
hearted  than  if  the  lady  were  still  in  her  teens,  and  the 
gentleman  wearing  his  first  epaulette.  But  to  continue  my 
story.  As  you  may  have  heard.  Lady  Morton  is  one  of  my 
oldest  friends,  and  when  she  came  to  spend  her  Christmas 
with  us  at  Tressilian  Court,  I  immediately  noticed  that  her 
mind  was  not  quite  at  ease.  She  soon  gave  me  her  con- 
fidence, and  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that,  as  we 
live  in  Cornwall,  and  the  Major's  estate  is  in  Devonshire, 
neither  his  character  nor  his  person  was  unknown  to  us. 
Though  it  was  evident,  at  once,  that  he  was  the  man  of  all 
others  to  make  my  friend  happy,  and  that  an  idea  of  the 
same  kind  had  fixed  itself  in  her  own  mind,  I  saw  that  there 
might  be  some  little  trouble  in  arranging  matters  so  as  to  re- 
unite the  broken  chain — particularly  as  Lady  Morton,  think- 
ing that  her  swain  should  not  so  suddenly  have  said  '  adieu,' 
had   wilfully  determined  never  again  to  see  him.     Taking 


THE      GAME      OF     LOVE.  3G3 

counsel  ■with  my  husband,  we  resolved  not  to  mention  that  wo 
knew  the  Major,  and  this  was  the  easier,  because  he  was 
winterinof  on  the  Continent,  A  little  before  we  came  to 
Matlock,  Sir  Julian  confidentially  informed  him  of  our 
intended  visit,  and  that  Lady  Morton  was  to  accompany  us. 
If  she  was  surprised  at  seeing  him  here,  we  were  not,  and  this 
evening,  I  dare  say,  he  is  unravelling  for  her  the  intricacies 
of  our  little  plot.  We  had  nothing  to  do,  as  you  may  have 
seen,  but  to  bring  them  into  each  other's  society  once  more 
— opportunity  has  done  the  rest,  and  we  shall  look  for  bride- 
favors,  and  bride-cakes  without  much  further  delay.  The 
whole  explanation  was  made  during  that  evening  on  the 
water,  when  you  sat  like  Patience,  in  the  boat,  and  I  have 
mentioned  the  particulars  to  you,  as  the  Major  tells  me  he 
had  ali-eady  given  you  a  hint,  though  I  dare  say,  you  were 
fully  conscious  of  what  was  passing." 

At  this  moment.  Lady  Morton  and  the  Major  came  up.  "Ah, 
Mariana,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  have  only  now  learnt  what  a 
dieadful  conspirator  you  have  been.  But  I  forgive  you,  for  I 
am  not  so  unwise  as  to  quarrel  at  being  cheated  into  happi- 
ness." 

In  two  months  from  that  day,  Lady  Morton  was  a  wife,  and 
the  lawful  possessor  of  the  memorable  watch,  already  men- 
tioned more  than  once  in  this  eventful  history.  On  that 
occasion  General  Laroche  attended,  to  give  the  bride  away, 
and  Madame  Laroche  reminded  the  Major  of  her  2^'>'^senti- 
ment  respecting  the  Emperor's  repeater. 

However,  this  is  an  anticipation.  The  next  day  our  party 
was  diminished  by  the  departure  of  Sir  Julian  and  the  ladies. 
Being  Sunday,  the  remainder  piously  went  to  church.  Early 
on  the  following  day,  even  the  remainder  separated.  Crayon 
and  the  Irishman,  complaining  that  they  had  seen  very  little 
of  the  more  romantic  parts  of  Scarsdale,  were  equipped  for  a 


364  TRESSILIAN. 

pedestrian  tour  to  Stanton  Moor  (witli  its  Druidic  anti<|uities, 
including  some  curious  rocking-stones,)  through  the  wild 
district  of  the  High  Peak,  and  through  romantic  Dove  Dale, 
so  well  known  to  all  who  have  read  Isaak  Walton.  The 
novelist  was  bound  for  Yorkshire,  in  which  he  proposed  to 
pass  the  summer.  The  Major,  who  had  promised  to  rejoin 
Tressilian  in  the  south,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  frankly 
accepted  my  invitation  to  visit  Chesterfield,  and  drove  me 
thither  in  the  afternoon,  with  much  pleasant  converse  upon 
one  subject,  to  wile  away  the  time  during  that  brief  journey. 


Here,  having  wound  up  with  a  marriage,  according  to  the 
estabhshed  custom  in  real  life,  as  well  as  in  fanciful  invention, 
the  writer  may  make  his  bow.  Painful  would  it  be  to  look 
back  through  the  years  wliich  have  passed  away  since  the 
brief  sojourn  at  Matlock  which  these  pages  have  recorded. 
With  one  exception — caused  by  an  untimely  death — the 
friendships  formed  there  and  then  have  continued  to  the  pre- 
sent time.  But,  in  a  long  lapse  of  years,  however  lightly 
time  may  leave  traces  of  his  course,  bright  eyes  become  dim, 
glad  hearts  have  mournful  trials,  high  liopes  are  disappointed. 
It  is  the  common  dispensation  of  mortality,  and  methinks  a 
wise  one,  that  the  ties  which  bind  us  to  this  life  should  break 
one  by  one,  so  as,  at  the  end,  to  make  our  hopes  rest  on  a 
haven  beyond  the  grave,  in  which  the  loved  and  lost  of  earth 
may  meet  again.  Thus,  at  last,  it  becomes  so  little  difficult 
to  die  that  I  am  persuaded,  when  the  summons  comes,  few 
would  really  wish  to  cling  to  life.  Happiest  those  who  are 
the  best  prepared. 


L'ENYOI. 


-•►- 


My  Deae  Jomr  Beotjgham: — 

I  have  inscribed  this  volume  to  you,  as  a  friend,  of  whose 
regard  I  am  justly  proud,  aud  also  as  a  countryman,  -who  has 
distinguished  himself  in  every  department  of  literature  and  art 
into  which  he  has  adventured. 

Tliere  is  yet  another  role  which  no  one  fills  better  than  your- 
self— the  warm-hearted  man  of  genius  whose  success  in  the 
social  circle,  as  well  as  in  the  more  enlarged  arena  of  professional 
and  literary  exertion,  has  not  dulled  tlie  purity  of  his  genial 
nature  by  the  slightest  alloy  of  vanity  or  envy. 

Permit  me,  on  the  presumption  that  you  will  read  this  volume, 
to  let  you  behind  the  scenes,  by  briefly  indicating  tlie  respective 
portions  of  fact  and  fancy  within  its  pages.  To  be  candid  with 
you^  (but  it  would  be  perilous  to  admit  the  public  into  the 
secret,)  there  is  much  more  of  Reality  than  Eomance  in  its 
pages,  for  I  construct  a  story  best  when  there  is  some  foundation 
on  fact,  for  either  its  incidents  or  characters. 

Much  of  what  you  will  find  here  was  written  several  years 
ago.  I  do  but  exercise  a  paternal  riglit,  in  calling  the  wanderers 
home,  in  order  to  introduce  them  as  a  "  happy  family  "  of  the 
brain,  to  a  new  order  of  readers.  Surely  an  author  may  thus 
collect — in  liope  that  others  may  re-collect — his  literary  bant- 
lings?    Should   any  statute  to  the   contrary  be   cited,    I    can 

plead  high  authority  and  unquestioned  precedent  on  the  othei 

S65 


366  l'e  N  V  0  I. 

side,  by  putting  your  own  Irish  Echoes  into  the  witness-box, 
and  charging  several  thousands  of  the  best  educated  witliin  the 
Union,  with  being  "  accessories  of  the  fact,"  inasmuch  as  they 
gladly  surrendered  themselves  to  the  delight  of  reading  the 
agreeable  melange  which  you  there  presented  to  them. 

The  idea  of  assembling  a  party  at  a  quiet  watering  place, 
(where  fresh  air  and  early  hours  are  to  Beauty  as  wonderful  a 
Kalydor  as  the  magical  May-dew,  or  our  own  immortal  "  Balme 
of  Thousande  Flowers,")  and  partially  engaging  them  in  the 
narration  of  adventures,  tales,  and  legends,  was  suggested  by  an 
actual  visit,  when  our  leisure  found  pleasant  occupation  in  such 
a  manner  as  I  have  here  attempted  to  describe.  Adopting  this 
as  the  framework  upou  which  to  hang  a  series  of  stories,  it  did 
not  require  much  ingenuity  to  introduce  a  slight  underplot,  with 
the  natural  inevitable  denouement  of  a  marriage.  Strictly 
speaking,  this  volume  consists  of  tales  and  sketches,  written  by 
myself,  set  in  the  slight  framework  of  a  love  story.  My  plot, 
albeit  of  the  slightest,  also  permitted  the  conversational  discus- 
sion of  a  few  subjects  of  general  interest,  chiefly  connected  with 
literature  and  art,  and  I  only  hope  that  what  I  intended  for  relief 
and  variety,  may  not  be  considered  too  didactic  and  critical. 

Sam  Peach,  tlie  hero  of  the  lirst  adventure,  was  well  known  in 
the  North  of  England,  some  years  ago,  for  his  wealth  and  eccentri- 
city. I  will  not  undertake  to  say,  that  he  actually  did  act  towards 
any  stranger  in  the  very  original  manner  in  which  he  is  said  to 
have  treated  Ensign  Simmonds — but  he  is  remembered  as  liaving 
frequently  exercised  a  capricious  and  fitful  generosity,  and  there 
must  have  been  some  vraisemblance  in  my  sketch;  for,  after  its 
first  appearance  in  an  English  magazine,  I  had  the  gratification  of 
seeing  tiie  whole  of  it  copied  into  one  of  tiie  Sheffield  news- 
yjapers,  as  a  local  article,  with  an  editorial  remark  that  it  was 
"Old  Sam  Peach  to  the  very  life." 

The  anecdote  of  "the  Bush  Guinea,"  first  reached  me  from  a 
lively  American  (by  the  way,  one  of  tlie  prettiest  women  I 
ever  saw),  who  only  omitted  to  mention  its  true  source.  Cer- 
tain errors  of  names,  places,  and  circumstances,  I  corrected  by 
enquiries  at  Bristol.     I  have  since  discovered  that  the  story,  as 


l'envox.  3G7 

my  fair  friend  told  it,  had  first  been  given  to  the  world  through 
the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  and  the  admirable  papers  called 
"  Ollapodiana,"  written  by  the  late  Willis  Gaylord  Clark,  a  man 
who  has  left  a  reputation  wliich  the  world  will  not  willingly  let 
die. 

The  sketch  entitled  "  Le  Millionaire  Malgre  Lui,"  was 
suggested  by  a  hastily  perused  and  imperfectly  remembered 
feuilleton  in  a  French  journal.  Other  writers,  since  my  para- 
phrase first  saw  the  light,  have  dug  into  the  same  quarry,  each 
treating  the  subject  in  his  own  manner;  so  that  each  may 
claim  to  be,  so  far, an  "original  Jacobs,"  of  the  article. 

In  "Tressilian's  Story,"  the  incidents  which  trace  the  early 
struggles  of  a  man  of  letters  in  London,  owe  much  more  to  fact 
than  invention.  Tliere  are  some  personal  reasons  why  I  think 
this  story  the  best  in  the  book,  and  these  have  also  induced  me 
to  name  the  volume  after  the  hero  of  tlie  tale. 

"Velasquez  and  his  Mestizo,"  is  wholly  historical,  its  leading 
circumstance  being  recorded  by  Cumberland  and  Sterling. 

The  satirical  epigram  with  which  it  concludes — theautlienticity 
of  which  was  vouched  for,  to  me,  by  Allen  Cunningham,  the 
poet's  editor — was  the  foundation  of  "  A  Niglit  with  Burns." 
I  have  so  often  lieard  my  fother,  who  had  known  him,  speak  of 
the  poet's  personal  appearance,  that  to  transfer  such  description 
to  my  own  pages,  required  little  more  than  an  effort  of 
memory. 

The  hero  of  "  Love  and  Phrenology,"  was  so  far  from  being  an 
eidolon^  tliat  those  who  recollect  him,  will  readily  admit  how 
entirely  free  from  exaggeration  is  t!ie  sketch.  The  original  of 
Professor  Richter,  was  a  person  bearing  the  uncommon  patrony- 
mic of  SMixri.  For  many  j'ears  lie  conducted  a  newspaper,  the 
Mercury^  in  Liverpool,  but  Avas  chiefly  distinguished  by  reason 
of  the  number  of  hobbies  which  he  rode.  His  original  occupa- 
tion of  optician,  had  given  him  a  certain  mechanical  fticility  in 
making  toys — puzzles  for  the  curious  and  the  idle.  Asserting 
that  he  was  one  of  the  best  swimmers  in  the  world,  this  old 
gentleman's  delight  was  to  exhibit  himself  in  the  Mersey,  floun- 
dering hke  a  porpoise,  and  confident  that  the  feats  of  Leander 


-      368  l'envoi. 

and  BjTon  were  trifling  in  comparison  with  his  own.  Avowing 
the  most  philanthropic  motives,  he  invented  cork-jackets  to  pre- 
vent death  by  drowning,  and — sold  them  at  a  large  profit.  He 
contended  that  the  boomerang  of  New  South  Wales  was  a 
weapon  worthy  of  being  universally  adopted  in  European  warfare, 
and  spent  a  whole  summer  in  throwing  this  projectile  in  the  air, 
to  ascertain  its  force,  and  perfect  his  own  skill.  Owing  to  some 
mal-adroitness,  however,  the  missile  had  an  awkward  trick  of 
gyrating  back,  and  hitting  tlie  philosopher  on  the  head. 

But  the  triumph  of  his  experiments  and  discoveries  in  science, 
and  that  on  which  he  chiefly  prided  himself,  was  to  show  that  a 
spinning-top  (such  as  children  of  a  lesser  growth  are  accustomed 
to  whip,  in  play)  might  be  kept  in  rotary  motion  for  half  an 
hour  upon  a  china  plate.     During  a  series  of  j-ears,  he  kept  this 
subject  before  the  public,  in  his  newspaper,  devoting  columns  to 
its  elucidations,  and  adorning  them  with  diagrams  and  woodcuts, 
showing  the  course  of  the  spinning-top,  with  portraits  of  that 
novel  instrument  of  science.     In  his  newspaper,  also,  were  given 
perspective  views  of  the  cork -jackets,  with  diagrams  and  sketches 
of  the  boomerang.    There,  too,  were  occasionally  exhibited  views 
of  himself  in  the  Mersey — floating,  swimming,  or  trying  to  per- 
form some  equally  notable  aquatic  feat.     For  a  long  series  of 
years — certainly  exceeding  thirty — half  a  column  a  week  was 
dedicated,  by  this  illustrious  obscure,  to  himself,  his  notions  and 
his  hobbies.     So  strongly  did  he  exhibit  the  spirit  of  egotism  in 
these  articles,  that  it  was  frequently  remarked,  that  his  biography 
Tnigbt  easily  be  compiled  from  the  personal  references  to  himself 
and  his  movements  in  the  "Notices  to  Correspondents."     On 
one  occasion  he  sadly  announced,  that  having  charitably  lent  an 
old  umbrella  to  a  strange  lady,  in  a  shower  of  rain,  she  actually 
had  the  dishonesty  not  to  return  it,  and  during  many  successive 
weeks,  he  poured  out  lamentations  on  his  loss,  describing  the 
aspect  of  the  article,  the  attire  of  the  non-returning  borrower, 
and   amusing  the   public   with    his    griefs    over    the    missing 
umbrella, 

"  Like  tbe  lost  Pleiad,  seen  no  more  below." 


l'envoi.  369 

Nor  were  his  personal  confidences  limited  to  his  pewspaper. 
Thence  they  were  transferred  to  a  cheap  literary  weekling  which 
he  also  published,  and  finally  found  a  resting-place  in  a  monthly 
octavo,  composed  of  the  picked  matter  of  his  newspaper  and 
periodical.  Meddling  with  Cobbett,  in  an  attempt  at  political 
discussion,  he  incurred  the  anger  of  that  nervous  writer,  who 
forthwith  Registered  him  as  "  Bot  Smith  " — by  which  appella- 
tion, constantly  repeated  by  him  of  the  Gridiron,  he  eventually 
became  so  well  known,  in  and  out  of  Liverpool,  that  it  was 
taken  to  be  his  true  name,  and  letters  were  frequently 
so  addressed  to  him.  In  a  word,  his  case  afibrds  a  striking 
example  of  the  very  small  degree  of  intelligence  sufficient  to 
establish  a  local  reputation  as  a  "  triton  of  the  minnows."  In  a 
metropolis,  such  a  person  would  have  speedily  found  his  level 
beneath  the  feet  of  real  merit.  When  he  died,  about  the  year 
1841,  his  townsmen  gave  him  the  honor  of  a  public  funeral,  and 
I  have  heard  that  they  even  placed  his  statue  in  their  Mechanics' 
Institute !  As  the  palette  of  Wilkie  was  let  into-  the  pedestal  of 
his  statue  in  the  National  Gallery  in  London,  a  spinning-top  and 
china-plate  should  have  been  introduced  into  the  Smith  statue  at 
Liverpool. 

When  the  Pickwick  Papers  introduced  the  clever  and  striking 
full  length  portrait  of  Mr.  Pott,  editor  of  the  Eatanswill  Gazette, 
a  great  many  persons  in  Liverpool  fancied  that,  independent  of 
the  name  being  suggestive  of  t\xQ  sobriquet  bestowed  on  him  by 
Cobbett,  the  original  could  have  been  no  other  than  tlieir  own 
philosopher  of  the  spinning-top.  The  appearance — "  a  tall,  thin 
man,  with  a  sandy-colored  head  inclined  to  baldness,  and  a  face 
in  which  solemn  importance  was  blended  with  a  look  of 
unfathomable  profundity;"  the  invariable  attire, — "a  long 
brown  surtout,  with  a  black  cloth  waistcoat,  and  drab  trousers;" 
— the  constant  reference  in  conversation,  to  articles  which  he 
had  written  in  his  newspaper  on  local  politics,  the  interest  of 
which,  trifling  at  any  time,  had  long  since  passed  away  ;  the 
ruling  idea,  that  throughout  the  country  in  general,  and  in 
London  in  particular,  there  was  an  intense  excitement  caused  by 
whatever  ?ie  wrote ;  the  constant  and  uncourteous  abuse  of  all 

IG* 


370  l'envoi. 

opposing  journalists ; — and,  to  crown  all,  the  triumphant  boast 
that  his  critic  had  written  on  Cliinese  Metaphysics,  by  reading 
in  the  Encyclopedia  under  0  for  China,  and  under  M.  for  Meta- 
phj-sics,  and  "had  combined  his  information  " — if  all  these  coin- 
cidences were  accidental,  then,  at  hap-hazard  did  Mr.  Dickens 
unconsciously  exhibit  a  person  and  an  idiosyncrasy  remarkably 
like  those  of  Mr.  Bot  Smith. 

"  Tlie  Composer  of  Poetry  "  was  a  real  personage,  and  his  des- 
cription the  reverse  of  an  exaggeration.  As  to  the  "Widow's 
Story,"  on  the  otlier  hatid,  it  is  wholly  imaginary,  hat,  per  contra, 
every  circumstance  mentioned  in  "The  Emperor's  Repeater,"  ac- 
tually occurred,  the  gallant  hero  him-;elf  being  my  own  cousin. 

Two  of  the  stories  here — "  The  Second  Siglit,"  and  "  The 
German  Student's  Story " — belong  to  the  semi-supernatural 
class,  and  indeed  the  leading  incidents  in  tlie  former  narrative 
are  traditionally  remembered  and  believed,  as  having  actually 
occurred  in  my  own  family. 

It  would  almost  make  a  romance  of  itself  were  I  to  record 
how,  where,  from  whom,  and  under  what  striking  circumstances 
I  heard  the  legend  of  the  "  Bleeding  Heart  Yard."  Tlie  narra- 
tor had  full  belief,  I  am  persuaded,  in  what  she  told.  The  lead- 
ing points  of  the  story  were  so  impressed  on  my  mind,  that 
some  years  after  I  wrote  it  as  it  now  stands,  for  "The  Forget- 
Me-Not,  for  1839."  Mr.  Barham  subsequently  took  up  the  sub- 
ject. In  the  summer  of  1843,  there  ap])eared  an  Ingoldsby 
Legend,  called,  "The  House  Warming]  a  Legend  of  Bleeding 
Heart  Yard."  It  was  treated,  like  everytliing  from  the  same 
pen,  with  wonderful  effect.  As  I  had  lieard  the  legend,  it 
appeared  to  belong  to  a  remoter  period  than  that  of  Elizabeth, 
in  which  Mr.  Barham  had  timed  it.  In  a  letter  to  me  on  the 
subject  he  said,  "The  Story  of  Alice  Fanshawe,  wife  to  Sir 
Christopher  Hatton,  having  had  her  heart  torn  out  by  the  devil, 
is  a  very  old  tradition,  and  noticed,  I  believe  in  some  of  the 
family  genealogies.  I  heard  or  read  it  when  I  was  a  boy  at 
school,  and  it  was  recalled  to  my  recollection  by  Mr.  Mackay's 
work  on  Popular  Delusions,  in  which  you  will  find  it  alluded  to 
at  some  considerable  length  by  that  gentleman,  who  also  states 


l'envoi.  SYl 

that  twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago  he  himself  resided  in  the 
house  in  which  the  catastrophe  took  place.  The  impression 
upon  my  mnid  is  that  I  originally  met  with  it  in  an  old  peerage; 
but  of  this  I  cannot  speak  with  any  certainty." — Charles  Mackay's 
work  here  alluded  to,  states  that  when  he  resided  in  Hatton 
House,  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  a  horse-shoe  (the  grand  preserva- 
tive against  witchcraft)  was  nailed  against  the  threshold — that 
the  witchcraft  of  Lady  Hatton  is  as  devoutly  believed  as  tiie 
gospel,  in  that  locality — that  the  room  is  to  be  seen  where  the 
devil  seized  her  after  the  expiration  of  the  contract  he  had  made 
with  her,  and  bore  her  away  bodily  to  the  pit  of  Tophet — that 
the  pump  against  which  he  dashed  her  is  still  pointed  out — that 
the  spot  where  her  heart  was  found,  after  he  had  torn  it  out 
with  his  own  claws,  has  received  the  name  of  Bleeding  Heart 
Yard  in  confirmation  of  the  story. 

"Beatrice  'd  Este,"  which  was  suggested  by  an  engraving,  is 
pure  fiction.  As  far  as  I  can  now  recollect,  the  "Legend  of 
Charlemagne,"  owes  its  origin  to  an  account  of  the  village  of 
Selingenstad,  in  Russell's  Tour  in  Germany.  The  "  Legend  of  the 
Maiden  Tower  "  is  a  Turkish  tradition,  mentioned  to  me  by  a 
traveller  as  a  curious  instance  of  the  similarity  between  the 
legends  of  the  East  and  the  "West. 

"The  Last  Throw  of  the  Dice,"  is  founded  upon  a  local  tradi- 
tion that  a  large  estate  in  the  North  of  England,  which  had  beeu 
gambled  away,  was  regained  about  seventy  years  ago,  on  the 
lower  cast  of  the  dice,  by  one  ace  lodging  on  the  top  of  anotiier. 
It  is  said  that  to  perpetuate  the  event,  the  fortunate  unit-arian 
actually  had  the  gable-end  of  his  mansion  embellished,  by  build- 
ing into  it,  in  parti-colored  brick,  tlie  semblance  of  an  enormous 
pair  of  dice,  with  a  solemn  injunction  in  his  last  will  and  testa- 
ment, against  the  destruction  of  this  memento.  His  descendants, 
true  to  the  letter  of  the  bequest,  have  left  the  wall  undisturbed 
— ^but  permitted  it  to  be  so  plenteously  covered  with  ivy,  that 
the  most  jealous  scrutiny  would  fail  to  discover  how  far  the 
closing  part  of  the  tradition  is  correct. 

I  must  admit  that  "  The  Great  Will  Cause,"  notwithstanding 


372  l'envoi. 

its  particularity  of  detail  and  description,  is  entirely  imagina- 
tive. 

Having  thus  made  a  clear  breast,  I  have  but  to  add  one  con- 
fession more — namely,  that  to  the  society  and  kindness  of  you 
and  yours,  I  have  been  so  often  and  so  deeply  indebted,  that  it 
gives  me  great  pleasure  thus  publicly  to  record,  in  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment, how  sincerely  (and  without  the  least  "Bit  of 

Blarney,") 

I  am,  my  dear  Brougham, 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

E.  Shelton  Mackenzie. 

Pbilaiielphu,  March  1st,  1859. 


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